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mannien · 3 days ago

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A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets. You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

#to read

7K notes · View notes

mannien · 3 days ago

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Nobody prepared me for a day when Im all alone, have chill self care plans, but instead have to fight through a leak in my garage and be all mature about it

#send help

0 notes

mannien · 4 days ago

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in too deep 𐙚 b.b

pairing: dom!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, fingering, orgasm denial, publi(ish) teasing, dirty talk do not operate heavy machinery after reading

summary: you told bucky it was your ovulation week and he took that as a challenge. you really, really, should’ve kept your mouth shut. based on this request | requests are open!

word count: 3k

author's note: hi my loves! i had too much fun writing this and i love it so much! i'm so excited to start working on the other requests that i have received 💓. have a great time reading, love ya and stay safe out there!

You should’ve kept your damn mouth shut.

It was just a whisper, a breathy, heat-laced confession, murmured with your face buried against Bucky’s throat last night while straddling his lap.

The compound was quiet, the television playing some netflix movie neither of you were watching. His hand had been sliding slow, comforting circles across your lower back, and your thighs were clenched tight around his hips, slick with want.

You hadn’t meant to say it, but your hormones clearly had other plans.

“It’s my ovulation week,” you breathed, nuzzling against his stubble. Your voice trembled with need, barely a sound. “Everything… feels extra.”

His hand had stopped, just for a second.

Then, danger. Pure danger. The way his fingers tightened possessively at your waist, the low hum he gave in response, and that glint in his eyes, it was not just mischief, his gaze was hungry almost as if he couldn’t wait to claim you.

That’s when you knew you were in trouble.

Now, the next morning, you’re standing in the mirrored gym on trembling legs with a kettlebell in your hand, sweat sliding down your spine, and your boyfriend is watching you like he’s about to drag you into the nearest closet and fuck you into the drywall. Not that you minded though.

He’s leaning against the wall across the mat. Casual on the surface. But the tension in his jaw and the weight in his stare?

It was anything but casual.

His sweatpants hang low on his hips, framing the sharp cut of his v-line and doing absolutely nothing to hide the thick, heavy outline of his cock beneath the cotton. His black tank is soaked through from sparring, clinging to the hard planes of his chest and abs like a second skin.

Bucky's got that calculated look in his eye almost like he’s pretending to assess your form, but really, he’s picturing bending you over the nearest bench and wrecking you six ways from Sunday.

You shift on your feet, stretch your arms overhead, arch just enough to let your back curve and your chest push forward.

If he’s going to tease you, you’ll tease back.

That’s your first mistake.

The second is letting out a moan, quiet, soft, instinctual as you bend down to touch your toes. It was barely audible, but he hears it.

The moment it escapes your lips, his eyes flash. And then, he moves.

Not a walk. A stalk.

He pushes off the wall and prowls toward you across the mat, slow and deliberate, like a wolf scenting its prey.

You straighten up too quickly, nearly dropping the kettlebell.

“Need a spotter?” he drawls, his voice pitched low and lazy, but his eyes rake over you like he’s already got you on your knees. “Or are you just making those noises for fun?”

You swallow, trying to look as unimpressed as possible. “Just warming up.”

He hums, circling behind you.

You feel the heat of him before he touches you, his presence like the sun, warm and overwhelming. You can smell him, too, sweat and cedar and something feral. And then, he kneels behind you, dragging his palms slowly up the backs of your thighs like he’s not in the compound's gym right now.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “We should stretch you out more.”

Your breath catches.

He parts your legs wider, his metal hand sliding between your inner thighs to nudge them open. You gasp as the fabric of your shorts pulls taut across your aching core, the pressure sweet and cruel.

“Bucky—” you whisper, heart racing.

“Shhh.” His breath ghosts over the curve of your ass. “You’re being so good. Standing still like this. Letting me see just how fuckin’ desperate you are.”

His fingers dance under the hem of your shorts, barely grazing your skin. Teasing your soaked, sensitive flesh without mercy, but he doesn’t touch you where you need though. Just close enough to ruin you.

“You’ve been wet since last night, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Could feel you clenching around nothing when you were grinding on my lap. Bet you soaked through your panties when you slept.”

You tremble, the heat between your legs now unbearable. You want to scream, maybe even cry, perhaps drag him into the supply closet and beg him to fuck you until you can’t walk.

And he knows it.

“You told me it’s your ovulation week dollface” he whispers, voice dark and sinful. “That means this little pussy’s hungry, huh? Just aching to get filled.”

“God, you’re evil,” you whisper through your teeth, trying not to fall apart in front of the squat rack.

He chuckles. Presses a kiss to the side of your thigh. And then—he stands. Just like that.

Leaves you there, shaking, soaked and empty.

You spin around, panting, barely restraining the urge to launch your kettlebell at his head.

Bucky smirks, that infuriating, self-satisfied look that says he’s enjoying your torment a little too much.

“I think Yelena’s done with the sparring mat,” he says, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Why don’t you grab it, sweetheart?��

Your face burns and your clit throbs. And Bucky walks off like he didn’t just edge you in the damn compound gym.

You turn and meet Yelena’s smug grin.

She’s still jogging on the treadmill but slows to a bounce-walk as she tosses you a towel. “You look like you need a different kind of workout, sweetheart.”

“Don't.”

Yelena leans on the handrails. “No, no, I’m just saying—” she lifts an eyebrow— “the mat isn’t the only thing that’s going to get stretched out today.”

You throw the towel at her face.

She catches it mid-air, laughing.

“Tell Bucky to let you finish next time,” she calls as you storm off to the locker room, “Or at least let us know so we can film it!”

Somewhere near the dumbbells, Bob chokes on his protein shake.

You don’t even know what this briefing is about.

There’s a map stretched across the table, John is mid-rant about “optimal insertion points,” Alexei’s chewing sunflower seeds with the enthusiasm of a man watching spring training, Ava is checking her knives for the third time, Yelena’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone, occasionally snorting at whatever she’s watching.

And Bob, well Bob is asleep.

But none of it matters.

Because Bucky is sitting next to you. And his fingers are buried between your thighs.

From the outside, everything looks innocent. His flesh hand rests gently in your lap, your own placed demurely over his like the two of you are just quietly close, sweet, even.

But beneath the table, where no one can see, his metal hand is sliding past the waistband of your shorts with deliberate, devastating precision.

He doesn’t even pretend to rush. Two thick fingers move in slow, torturous circles over your clit, skimming with maddening pressure, barely enough to satisfy, but just enough to make your legs tremble.

Your breath catches, body frozen in place, every muscle tight with restraint. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how to touch you just right, how to coax those tiny, helpless reactions from you while you try to sit still and pretend you’re paying attention to a goddamn map.

His fingers stroke like he has all the time in the world, like there isn't a room full of operatives around you and a mission briefing happening overhead. A soft whimper curls in your throat and dies behind your teeth.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to catch more friction, but that only makes him chuckle under his breath, barely audible and smug as sin.

And still, he doesn’t go deeper. Doesn't give you what you're aching for. Just keeps circling, teasing, controlling. Like this is a game, and you’re already losing, pathetically.

You sit stiffly, back ramrod straight, every muscle locked as you try not to make a sound. Your tablet is open in front of you, gripped so tight your knuckles ache and it's the only thing grounding you in this room while your body burns.

He leans in, voice low, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in it. “You really gonna cum in front of the team, princess?”

Your breath hitches. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice sharp like a warning, like a prayer.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, his touch gets lazier. Crueler. His cold vibranium fingers part your folds like he owns every inch of you, and he dips just barely inside, only to pull away, dragging the wetness back up to swirl gently over your clit again.

“You said you needed me,” he continues, brushing his nose against your temple. “Said your body’s beggin’ for it. I’m just helping”

“Are you two doing this again?” Yelena asks flatly, without even looking up. Her tone is dry as dust. “She’s vibrating like she’s possessed, someone get her a snack before she faints.”

You glare daggers at her, but it’s weak, your body is already betraying you.

Alexei squints at you across the table. “I thought she had blood sugar issue”

“She’s ovulating,” Bucky announces casually, not even bothering to lower his voice.

Ava groans. “Jesus, Barnes, you can’t just say that.”

“She told me,” he shrugs, like he’s reading weather reports. “I’m being supportive.”

You make a choked sound as he presses down harder in tight, purposeful circles now, inescapable. Your hips twitch without your permission, Bucky's not even fucking you yet, but you can already feel the orgasm winding tight in your belly like a wire stretched too thin.

“I hate you,” you grind out under your breath, nails digging crescents into your palm.

He turns just enough to meet your eyes, that wicked glint in his blue gaze that makes your lungs seize. “Say that again when you’re cumming on my fingers, pretty girl.”

But he doesn’t let you get there.

Each time your body trembles on the cusp, he pulls back, slows, teasing you with strokes so feather-light they feel like punishment.

You’re soaked, shaking, every inch of your skin flushed with heat. He’s wrecking you in silence, in full view of your teammates, and no one’s the wiser, save for the few who clearly suspect exactly what’s happening under the table.

“Bucky,” you beg, barely audible, lips barely moving. “Please.”

He tilts his head, brushing his mouth over the corner of yours. “Not here, sweetheart.” His voice is velvet, low and dark and dripping with promise. “You wanna be bred, honey? Stuffed full like you’re meant to be?” You whimper, and he smirks. “Then you’ll wait.”

“Okay,” Walker claps his hands like a kindergarten teacher trying to salvage control, clearly frustrated. “Unless Bucky would like to finish fucking his girlfriend under the table, can we maybe circle back to the infiltration routes?”

“Bold of you to assume he hasn’t started,” Yelena mutters, not even glancing up from her screen.

You want the ground to swallow you whole. Or set the whole damn briefing room on fire. Maybe both.

Bucky withdraws his hand with excruciating slowness, fingers slick with your arousal. He doesn’t bother hiding it. Instead, he drags them along the inside of your thigh, leaving a glistening trail before wiping them off on your skin like he’s branding you. A silent, possessive mark that has your breath catching in your throat.

He leans back in his chair like nothing happened, legs spread in that display of dominance, expression unreadable but infuriatingly smug.

Completely relaxed. Completely in control.

And you? You’re ruined. Wrung out and twitching. Every nerve ending crackling with frustration, your body screaming for the release he just denied you.

Then he turns again, tilting his head so his lips hover at the shell of your ear, voice so low it shivers through your bones.

“Kitchen. Twenty minutes. Don’t wear panties.”

You almost beat him there.

Almost.

You're already perched on the edge of the kitchen island, legs swinging slightly, thighs pressed tight together in a poor attempt to dull the ache pulsing through your core. Your shorts are somewhere back in your room, discarded in your frenzy to get here fast enough, and you’re bare underneath his black t-shirt, no panties, no shame.

Just soaked thighs and need.

The cotton of his tee clings to your skin, damp with sweat and arousal. Your nipples are pebbled against the fabric, the cool air in the kitchen brushing over them each time you shift. You’re a mess of frustration and anticipation—hot, dripping, ruined—and all because he didn’t let you finish at that stupid meeting.

Then the sound of footsteps.

He strides in like he owns the whole fucking building—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, dark tank sticking to his chest, muscles flexed, jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that stop your breath. Cerulean blue, blazing and feral.

He takes one look at you—legs spread, thighs gleaming, lips parted in silent plea and something in him snaps.

He crosses the space in two steps and his hands are already on you.

“You waited like a good girl, huh?” he rasps, voice wrecked and raw, lifting the shirt up and over your chest. “Sittin’ here all wet and desperate, no fuckin’ panties like I told you. Fuck.”

You don’t get the chance to answer—he’s already kissing you. Hard and possessive. Open-mouthed and filthy, all tongue and teeth and the sharp edge of punishment. You moan against his mouth, clawing at his waistband, nails scraping the hard lines of his hips.

His vibranium hand slides between your legs and you nearly sob. He groans into your mouth as he feels how wet you are, how ready.

“Been leaking for me all fuckin’ day,” he growls, dragging slick fingers through your folds. “You know what I want, don’t you, baby? Want that sweet little cunt full. Stuffed so deep you feel me for days.”

“Please,” you pant, grinding shamelessly against his hand, desperate. “Need it—need you to fill me up, Bucky, please—”

That’s all he needs.

He spins you around and bends you over the island, chest pressed to cool marble, ass bared and ready. There’s no teasing this time. No patience. You feel the thick, blunt heat of him at your entrance and brace yourself—

Then he slams into you with a brutal thrust.

You cry out, loud and unrestrained, one hand slapping the counter, the other gripping the edge like a lifeline. Bucky bottoms out instantly, stretching you open, splitting you around the thick length of him.

“Fuck,” he groans, snapping his hips. “Tight fuckin’ pussy. You were made to be filled by me.”

He sets a relentless pace, hips slamming into your ass, the sound obscene and echoing off the tiled walls. Each thrust drives your body forward, forces breath from your lungs, drags you closer to the edge with reckless, punishing efficiency.

“You want it in you, huh?” he pants, gripping your hips like he’ll never let go. “Gonna fuck you full, baby. Gonna fill that greedy pussy ‘til it’s dripping down your thighs. Want my cum deep, want me to breed this needy little cunt?”

“Yes!” you scream. “Fuck, yes, yes, please, Bucky, fill me,"

He snarls, pace turning savage. “Gonna take it. Gonna fuck a baby into you right here on the goddamn counter. My needy little slut, my good girl.”

You unravel, shaking, twitching, walls spasming around him as your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure burning through your bloodstream, exploding behind your eyes. You sob his name, voice wrecked.

Bucky’s right behind you.

He grits out a curse and drives in deep, cock twitching as he spills inside you, hot, thick and endless. He keeps grinding forward as if he could somehow fuck his cum deeper, claim every inch of you from the inside out.

And then you heard voices and footsteps from the hall.

Yelena’s voice rang out, “You know we eat food on that counter, right? Like with our mouths?

Alexei exclaims, “Walker owe me twenty bucks!”

John retorts, dry as ever “at least she's not complaining now.” Ava laughed, “Told you they wouldn’t make it to sunset”

And you could vaguely hear Bob asking if they were supposed to see this.

You bury your face in your arms, groaning. “Kill me. Kill me now.”

Bucky chuckles, actual laughter, low and warm, chest shaking against your back, he presses a kiss to the base of your neck, then another to your spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He pulls out slowly, a filthy squelch of sound following, then hums when your thighs glisten with his release. “Look at that,” he says softly. “Already leaking. Just how I like it.”

You melt when he wraps his arms around you from behind, chest to your back, still warm and panting.

“You did so good for me,” he whispers, brushing your hair off your cheek. “So perfect. Gonna clean you up, put you in bed, and hold you all night. You earned it, needy girl.”

You sigh, body boneless.

And when he lifts you off the counter like you weigh nothing, bridal style, you don’t even resist. You just curl into his chest, letting yourself be carried away, dripping and satisfied.

“I love you,” he says softly into your hair as he walks past the rest of the team like you two didn’t just fuck in a common area.

Despite everything, despite the chaos, the teasing, the way he just wrecked you in the kitchen, you smile.

“I love you too.”

Even if you’re banned from the kitchen forever.

a/n: thank you so much for reading my sweethearts! ❤️ please leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! it keeps me motivated 🥰

2K notes · View notes

mannien · 4 days ago

Text

my angel of life

summary: Bucky tries to get your daughter to say 'mama' for the first time. word count: 3.3k+ pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: this is a stupid thing but here we go - on my doomscroll on instagram, i saw a video of a woman showing small clips of her little boy telling her "you're so beautiful" and "pretty wife" and it got me thinking, bucky would absolutely be the type of person to call you "mama" as a pet name after having a kid. so... here we are, lol (also 2 fics in 2 days who am i???). also also, it's sebastian stan's birthday! (and yes, that is a picture of steve kemp, sue me. he's my baby and there's not a lot of smiling bucky pics out there😔) warnings/tags: takes place after thunderbolts*, domestic thunderbolts, you and bucky have a daughter (around 7-8 months old), bucky is a great dad, fluff!

The Watchtower was still in the early hours of morning—soft blue light pooled along the concrete walls, barely filtered through the reinforced glass windows. Outside, mist rolled over the treetops like a secret no one would speak aloud.

Inside, you rocked gently in the big armchair Yelena dragged in two weeks after the baby was born, claiming you ��needed a throne” if you were going to be “the Queen of Waking Up Every Two Hours.” The fabric was worn, one leg wobbled a bit, but it cradled your body like it had memorized you.

Your daughter was curled against your chest in that warm, heavy sleep unique to babies—her cheek pressed against your collarbone, thumb curled under her chin, breath soft and rhythmic.

You hummed quietly under your breath. Something slow and tuneless.

Across the room, Bucky leaned against the doorway, one shoulder pressed to the frame, arms crossed. He wasn’t trying to hide. You always knew when he was watching you. His gaze had a particular weight to it—never invasive, never judgmental. Just heavy with something deeper.

He looked tired, but peaceful. The kind of tired that came from effort, not pain. He was in a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and his hair was a little messy, like he’d pushed it back with his hand a hundred times already.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you whispered without turning your head.

“You didn’t.” His voice was rough. Mornings made him sound like he hadn’t spoken in years. “She did.”

You shifted Annabelle slightly, keeping your hand cupped behind her neck. “She’s a screamer when she’s wet. Takes after her dad.”

Bucky’s mouth lifted, just a little. “She’s louder.”

He crossed the room slowly, movements quiet and deliberate. You felt him kneel beside the chair before you saw him. His hand rested lightly on your knee, warm and calloused. “She sleepin’ again?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Out like a light.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, just above the strap of your tank top. Then he stayed there, forehead against your skin, breathing you in like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You didn’t speak for a while.

The Watchtower was quiet like that sometimes—when the others were still asleep or off on rotations. You and Bucky had carved out these little silences in the chaos. Silences where you didn’t have to be soldiers, or operatives, or caretakers of a broken world.

Just… people. Just two people who somehow found each other on the other side of everything.

“She smiled at Bob yesterday,” Bucky murmured, pulling back just enough to rest his chin on your leg. “I think she likes him.”

You laughed quietly. “Bob’s basically a golden retriever in tactical gear. Of course she likes him.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s his voice. Real soft. Calms her down.”

“She also tried to chew his thumb.”

“She’s got good instincts.”

Annabelle stirred a little, her nose wrinkling, her fingers twitching. You glanced down, adjusting her slightly with practiced hands. She settled, and Bucky watched every tiny motion with the same quiet reverence he had the first time he held her.

You caught his gaze. “You okay?”

He blinked once. Twice. Then nodded.

“I just keep waiting for it to go away,” he said softly. “This... all of it. You. Her. The quiet. I wake up thinking I’m gonna find myself back in that cell. Alone. Cold.”

You reached down, brushing your fingers through his hair. “It’s not going away.”

“I know,” he said. “But I still check. Every day. Just in case.”

You didn’t tell him not to. You knew better than to fight the ghosts that way. Instead, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his temple. “Then keep checking. I’ll still be here when you open your eyes.”

He looked up at you—those glacier-blue eyes gone soft, undone. And in that moment, it wasn’t just gratitude. It was awe.

And maybe something more.

---

The Watchtower’s common room looked less like a classified government facility and more like a bomb went off in a toy store. Foam blocks. A half-assembled baby bouncer. A stuffed bee that rattled every time someone looked at it wrong.

Bucky stepped over a stack of soft books with a caution you’d once seen him use for landmines.

He was holding Annabelle. Or rather, she was holding him—a fistful of his Henley clenched in her tiny, jelly-smeared fingers. Her head rested against his shoulder, dark wisps of hair curling against his neck. Her onesie had a suspicious stain on the leg, and her socks were two different colors.

He didn’t care.

You watched from the kitchen, drying a bottle and leaning your hip against the counter. Bucky hadn’t even noticed you yet. He was bouncing her gently, murmuring something under his breath. Not baby talk. Just… soft conversation. Like she was someone he’d known his whole life.

“…And then he just walks into the room like he didn’t knock over the espresso machine, and I get stuck with cleanup.”

A pause. Annabelle cooed.

Bucky nodded seriously. “Exactly. I told him, next time he goes near the counter, he’s gonna lose a finger.”

You smothered a laugh. “Bucky?”

He turned. Not startled—he never really was. Just aware.

“She needed a walk,” he said. “She was starting to fuss.”

“She’s due for a nap soon.”

“I know. I was trying to stall. She does that kicky thing when she doesn’t want to sleep. Like a little mule.”

Annabelle chose that exact moment to kick her sock off but Bucky caught it midair.

You raised a brow. “She gets it from you.”

He made a face, turning slightly so she could settle more against him. “I’m not kicky.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“That’s different.”

“You once slept in a chair for five nights because you didn’t want to admit the bed was comfier.”

“That chair had integrity.”

You grinned and tossed him a clean pacifier. He caught it one-handed, and Annabelle immediately reached up like she knew it was hers.

She was growing so fast. Eight months ago, she was a crying bundle of warmth and panic in your arms—delivered in a rainstorm with Yelena yelling about hot water and Bob crying harder than you were.

Now she was… her own little person.

And Bucky?

He was still learning how to breathe through the fear. The kind that told him this was too good, too soft, too temporary. But you could see it in the way he carried her—like every step was sacred. Like she was the one thing in his life that had never been a weapon.

---

Yelena was passed out on the couch, one leg thrown over John’s lap like they hadn’t argued about personal space for three straight days. Ava was quietly fixing the fuse box again. Bob was asleep in the recliner with Annabelle’s bee plush somehow tucked under his arm.

You and Bucky had retreated to the small room that passed as your shared quarters. It wasn’t much—two dressers, a bed, some pictures on the wall. But it was yours.

Annabelle was asleep in her crib, one hand flopped over her eyes like the day had been just too much.

Bucky stood beside her, staring down in that way he did sometimes—quiet, reverent, almost afraid to blink. You came up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. “She’s out,” you whispered. “Think we can get three hours before she starts teething again?”

“God, I hope so.”

His hand came to rest over yours, lacing his fingers through. You stayed there a moment, breathing in sync, watching the tiny chest rise and fall.

“Hey,” you said softly. “What you told her earlier. About John and the espresso machine?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s gonna believe everything you say, you know.” He glanced down, brows raised. “I mean it,” you said. “She’s going to grow up thinking her dad is the strongest, smartest man in the world.”

Bucky looked back at the crib, jaw clenched like he didn’t quite trust himself to speak. “I’m not—”

“She doesn’t care who you were,” you said, pressing a kiss to his spine. “She just knows who you are to her. And that? That’s enough.”

You felt him exhale slowly. Shoulders relaxed. He turned, wrapping you in his arms like the silence wasn’t enough anymore.

“Come to bed,” you said, tugging gently.

He nodded. But before he let go, he looked over your shoulder, back at the sleeping bundle in the crib. And then quietly, more to himself than anyone else, he whispered, “…she’s got your nose.”

You smiled.

---

The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the pipes—courtesy of Alexei’s insistence that “plumbing is just a puzzle you threaten enough.” You were still in pajamas, one sock on, one sock missing—courtesy of Annabelle—sipping coffee and pretending to read the same paragraph of your book for the fifth time.

From the living room, you heard Bucky’s voice—soft and patient. “Ma-ma,” he said gently.

Pause.

You smiled, not lifting your head.

“Come on,” he tried again. “Say it. Ma-ma. Just like that.”

Another pause. Then something thumped. Maybe a toy. Maybe Bucky’s forehead hitting the couch in defeat.

You leaned in the doorway, cradling your mug in both hands. Bucky was sitting cross-legged on the floor, socks mismatched, hair still wet from the shower. Annabelle was plopped in front of him, half-swallowed by her yellow sleep sack, chewing on a teething ring like it owed her money.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

“Baba?” Annabelle gurgled.

Bucky frowned. “No,” he corrected, pointing toward the kitchen with exaggerated drama. “Mama. Ma-ma. Not baba. You say that, and Bob’s gonna think he won.”

You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh.

Annabelle kicked one leg and flung the teething ring across the floor. It hit Alexei’s boot with a clink. From the hallway, Alexei muttered something in Russian and kept walking.

Bucky leaned forward and gently tapped her nose. “Ma-ma.”

“Buh-buh.”

Bucky sighed. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

She squealed, delighted at the sound of her own voice.

“Bucky,” you called softly, finally stepping into the room. “You bribing her with snacks over there?”

He startled a little, looked up like a guilty teenager caught sneaking dessert. “No,” he said slowly, “but I would if it helped.”

You lowered yourself onto the rug beside them. Annabelle immediately lunged in your direction with all the grace of a sleepy drunk bear, drooling and determined.

“She’s not gonna say it on command,” you said, settling her into your lap. “She’ll just… pick her moment.”

“She started saying ‘baba’ yesterday,” Bucky muttered, clearly wounded. “You’re telling me she can say baba but not mama?”

“She was chasing Bob’s head. I don’t think that counts.”

Bucky rolled onto his side, head propped on his hand. “I just want her to know it. Your name. The sound of you.”

You paused.

Something about the way he said it… like it wasn’t just about the word. It was the shape of love he still didn’t know how to say out loud. The devotion he poured into the smallest corners of your life—refilling the diaper pail before you noticed, picking the softest nightlight because she always turned toward it in her sleep, stitching a fraying edge on your sweater without saying a word.

He wanted her to say mama because it mattered to him.

Because you mattered.

Annabelle was now determined to eat your shirt collar. You pressed a kiss to the top of her head and looked at Bucky over the fuzz of baby hair. “You want her first word to be about me,” you said softly.

He didn’t blink. “Yeah. I do.”

You stared at him for a beat too long. His hand found your ankle, thumb brushing in lazy circles. “You’re a good dad,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah.”

Annabelle let out a delighted baaaa and smacked her own belly like it was a drum.

Bucky grinned. “Okay, that’s impressive.”

“She’s got rhythm.”

“She gets it from me.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “Debatable.”

“Hey.”

You were still laughing when Annabelle—cheeks flushed, face sticky with drool and victory—pressed both hands against your chest and said, clear as day, “Ma-ma.”

Time froze. Your breath caught. Bucky’s eyes widened. Annabelle blinked up at you like she didn’t understand what she’d just done.

And then Bucky sat up straight, eyes soft and shining like he’d seen the sun rise for the first time. “Mama,” he repeated, pointing between you and Annabelle. “That’s mama, sweetheart. That’s right.”

You couldn’t even speak. You were too busy holding this wiggly, gummy, miraculous little human against your heart while Bucky looked at you like nothing else in the world had ever mattered.

He leaned over and kissed your temple—one hand still resting on your leg. “Told you she’d get it,” he whispered.

You glanced at him, a little breathless. “How long were you trying?”

He didn’t look away from the baby when he said, “just long enough.”

---

The Watchtower never fully slept.

Even now, well past midnight, the ceiling lights in the hallway hummed quietly, low and golden. You padded barefoot from the baby’s room, arms crossed against the chill, sweater hanging loose off one shoulder. Annabelle had finally gone down after a long stretch of teething fuss and something that looked suspiciously like a second tooth coming in.

Inside your shared room, Bucky was half-sprawled on the bed, reading—or pretending to. The book was open, but his eyes weren’t on the page. He looked up when he heard your steps. “You good?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You nodded, climbing onto the bed beside him. “She’s out. For now.”

He reached out and gently tugged you against him by the hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before pulling you into his side. You went willingly, curling beneath his arm, your cheek against his chest.

His heartbeat was slow. Grounding. “She try to crawl out of her crib again?” he asked.

“She considered it. Gave me this look like she was weighing the odds.”

“Rogue,” he murmured fondly. “Definitely takes after me.”

“She chews on her own toes.”

“...Okay, so maybe a little of you too.”

You elbowed him lightly, and he grinned, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head.

The room was quiet. Familiar. Safe in a way that still surprised you sometimes. The armor had melted off the man beside you. Layer by layer. Not all at once, but enough that you could feel the softness underneath now—quiet and steady and yours.

You turned slightly, resting your chin on his chest to look at him. “You ever think you’d end up here?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He ran his fingers through your hair, the rhythm slow and absent, like he needed to feel something moving to stay present.

“I didn’t think I’d make it past thirty,” he said. “Didn’t plan for a crib in the corner and a woman in my arms.”

You traced a slow line across his shirt, over the pattern of his ribs. “You glad you did?”

His hand slipped down to your waist, thumb brushing your side through the fabric of your sleep shirt. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “This right here is the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

You kissed his chest once, and for a while, that was enough. You let yourself sink into the quiet hum of breathing and blankets, letting your eyes fall shut.

And then—

“Hey, mama,” Bucky murmured, already halfway to sleep, “you leave the bottle warmer on?”

You blinked. Your brain stalled. “…What?”

He didn’t even pause. “For the middle of the night. Just in case she wakes up. I can take the next one.”

You were still staring at him. He wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were closed now, body completely relaxed. The words had slipped out like they belonged to every other pet name he used without thinking.

Doll. Sweetheart. Baby.

Mama.

You bit back a smile and shook your head. “No,” you said softly, “I turned it off.”

“Mmkay,” he hummed, already drifting. “Good.”

And then nothing.

Just breathing. A quiet room. The occasional creak of the Watchtower settling into the bones of the earth.

You pressed closer to him, smiling into his shirt.

He didn’t even know he’d said it.

But you did.

And it wrapped around your heart like a promise.

---

The kitchen was always chaotic in the mornings, but this one was particularly alive.

The coffee machine hissed like it had a grudge. Ava sat at the counter with a protein bar and a schematics tablet, chewing absently. Alexei was heating something that smelled like twelve-day-old cabbage in the microwave. Bob had somehow stacked three mugs in one hand and was making polite conversation with the toaster.

Yelena stood by the fridge, barefoot, wearing one of her ridiculous sleep shirts that said “I’m Not a Morning Person, I’m a Trained Assassin” in bright pink letters. She was staring at a tub of Greek yogurt like it had personally betrayed her.

You were at the stove, swaying a little on your feet as you scrambled eggs one-handed, the other arm holding a babbling Annabelle on your hip. Her sleep curls were wild, and she was chewing on a silicone spoon with great intensity.

Bucky was standing just behind you, leaning a hip on the counter, drinking coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“You want toast or—?”

“Whatever you make is good, mama.”

Yelena’s head snapped up so fast she nearly dropped the yogurt.

You blinked.

Bucky didn’t. He was sipping coffee, eyes still on the stove, completely unfazed. Like he'd just called you doll or baby. Just... part of the rotation now.

“Wait,” Yelena said, holding one finger up in the air like she’d just uncovered a global conspiracy. “Did you just—did he just—did he just call you mama?!”

The entire room paused.

Bob stopped stacking mugs. Ava looked up from her tablet. Alexei looked up from his cabbage and added unhelpfully, “in Russian, we call that nesting behavior. Like swans. Very romantic. Very territorial.”

John walked through the room with a protein bar and muttered, “I’m not awake enough for this.”

You turned slowly, trying very hard not to laugh.

Bucky squinted at Yelena. “What?”

“You—” she pointed between you two, eyes narrowed like she was solving a murder. “You just called her mama.”

He blinked once. “Yeah?”

“Not in reference to the actual baby?”

You bit your lip.

“She’s holding the baby,” Bucky said flatly. “It tracks.”

“No, no, no,” Yelena said, eyes sparkling now. “You said it like—like it was a pet name. Like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘doll’ or whatever you say when you think no one’s listening.”

“Pretty sure I say those when you’re all listening, actually,” Bucky muttered, sipping again. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Just the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Unbelievable,” Yelena said. “This is so domestic. I hate it. I’m gonna throw up.”

“You’re just mad she got the baby and the pet name,” you said, turning back to the stove.

“I don’t want a baby, I want a dog.”

Bob, cheerful as ever, piped in, “I could be your dog.” Bob froze. “I—I meant, like—metaphorically—I didn’t—I’m gonna go—” He walked out of the kitchen holding all three mugs, face red.

Annabelle let out a delighted squeal and threw her spoon.

Bucky caught it midair without blinking.

Yelena pointed dramatically. “See?! Even the baby’s like, ‘You said what?!’”

Bucky didn’t even look up. Just leaned in behind you, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured low enough that only you could hear it, “sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize I was being surveilled.”

You grinned and bumped his hip. “She didn’t even hear the first time,” you whispered. “Last night. You called me that in bed.”

He raised a brow. “Did I?”

“Mmhm.”

“Guess it’s sticking, then.”

From behind you, Yelena groaned. “You’re disgusting. I hope Annabelle’s first sentence is ‘I reject traditional nuclear family structure.’”

Alexei raised his fork. “I support this.”

You flipped the eggs onto a plate, handed it to Bucky, and kissed his cheek. “Go eat, papa bear.”

Yelena choked on her yogurt.

#to read #bucky

1K notes · View notes

mannien · 5 days ago

Text

Everything soft, Everything slow

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count 1.5k

Synopsis Bucky gets a slow dance, a song from another time, and a perfect moment—until the Thunderbolts crash it. Per usual.

Themes + Warnings FLUFF FLUFF FLUFFF , soft!bucky , lover boy finally gets the soft treatment he deserves :( , it’s been a long time mentioned AS THE SONG.

— Everything soft, Everything slow But I think… it was always yours too.

It started with the song.

You didn’t mean to find it—just happened to be scrolling through playlists while cleaning the Tower’s storage room when it came through your headphones. That soft, echoing crackle. That voice. That ache.

“Kiss me once, then kiss me twice…”

Your breath caught in your chest. It’s Been a Long, Long Time.

Of course you knew the history. It was Steve’s song. But maybe… maybe it was Bucky’s too.

And maybe he’d never say it out loud, but you saw it—that quiet way his shoulders dropped whenever that song came on. That deep, aching silence like he was standing in a memory so old it hurt to hold.

He never talked about it. Not really.

He never asked for anything either.

So you started planning.

The sun was slipping below the skyline now, that golden-purple hour stretching out over the Tower’s patio like spilled paint. You tugged the old extension cord tight behind a planter, whispering a silent prayer that Tony’s forgotten record player wouldn’t explode the minute it started spinning.

Candles. Check.

Old record player. Check.

Your favorite person in the entire damn world?

Well—on his way.

You had to kick it twice to get it working. Not exactly elegant. But when the soft static buzzed to life and the record finally started turning, your chest filled with warmth.

A few candles flickered to life beside the player, their soft light glowing against the glass. It wasn’t fancy. No five-star dinner. No rooftop fireworks. Just a song, a breeze, and a small moment carved out for a man who never asked for softness.

You stepped back, heart thudding, just as the sliding glass door behind you opened.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice was rough from disuse, maybe from surprise. You turned.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair tied back messily, gray tee soft with wear, expression scrunched in confusion as he stepped out onto the patio. He blinked at the candles, the record player, the soft music now playing in full.

“It’s been a long, long time…”

His eyes locked onto yours. “What… is all this?”

You smiled, nerves fluttering in your belly. “A date.”

Bucky blinked again. “You planned this?”

You nodded, taking a slow step forward. “I know it’s not a roller rink or a rooftop picnic or a Coney Island roller coaster—”

“You remember all those?”

“I remember everything you’ve done for me.”

He looked stunned. And maybe a little… unsure. Like no one had ever given him back the kind of thoughtfulness he handed out like second nature. Like he didn’t quite believe he could deserve something so simple and good.

You held out your hand, palm up.

“Dance with me?”

He took it.

Without a word, Bucky stepped into your arms.

Bucky blinked. “This song…”

You knew what he was thinking. You knew exactly who this song made him think of. But you also knew it wasn’t about Steve. Not tonight.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I think… it was always yours too.”

His metal hand hesitated a moment, hovering near your back before gently settling there—featherlight. His flesh hand curled around yours. You placed your other hand on his shoulder, and together, you swayed.

Slow.

Quiet.

The kind of slow dancing no one teaches anymore. The kind where you’re just standing still, moving in tiny circles, listening to the song instead of the world.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just held you.

The wind tugged at the hem of his shirt. The candles flickered beside the record. The city below kept going—but you didn’t. Neither of you needed to.

“I haven’t heard this in…” Bucky’s voice broke slightly. “God, a lifetime.”

“I figured,” you said softly. “But I thought maybe… maybe you missed it.”

He nodded slowly. Then he looked at you.

And oh, God, that look.

Not the one he gave you when you wore something he liked. Not the amused, crooked grin when you beat him at cards. Not the smirk when he teased you in front of the others.

No—this look was softer.

Older.

Like you were something rare. Something he never expected to have again.

“I used to imagine this, you know,” he murmured. “Back when I was… in the middle of it all. When I was out there with HYDRA, or on the run, or just trying to keep my head on straight. I used to imagine moments like this.”

You squeezed his hand.

“This isn’t just a date,” he said, voice thick. “It’s a piece of something I thought I’d lost.”

Your throat tightened. “Then I’m really glad I brought it back.”

Inside, through the glass doors, the Thunderbolts were shamelessly watching.

Yelena had her feet up on the couch, aggressively eating a bowl of cereal at 8PM like it was popcorn. “They’re so gross,” she whispered with a grin. “I want to cry.”

Bob had his hoodie half-over his head, hands tucked in the sleeves like a comfort burrito. “This is beautiful. I mean, really beautiful. Can we just—can we always be this soft?”

John Walker looked deeply uncomfortable. “Are we… supposed to be watching this?”

“You could turn around,” Ava said flatly, not turning away.

Alexei let out a grumble from the kitchen. “This is how real men love. Bucky Barnes, you are my son now.”

John opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Alexei. “You can’t adopt him, he’s 100 years old.”

“I have spoken!”

Back outside, Bucky leaned his forehead against yours. The music slowed.

“I thought my heart would die…

Didn’t I tell you…

You’d be back, and you’d be mine…”

His voice was barely a whisper now. “This is the best date I’ve ever been on.”

You smiled through the wetness in your eyes. “It’s just a song and a patio.”

“No. It’s you. You thought about this. About me. You… you brought something back I didn’t even realize I was still missing.”

You closed your eyes and held him tighter.

And for the first time in what might’ve been decades, James Buchanan Barnes let himself melt into someone’s arms.

Not as the Winter Soldier. Not as an Avenger. Not as a Thunderbolt.

Just a man.

A man who survived.

A man who learned how to love again.

And a man who, for the first time in forever, didn’t have to plan a single thing.

Because this? This was his moment.

And you made it just for him.

You felt Bucky smile against your temple as the last note of the song drifted off into the night.

For a long moment, the world stayed still.

Your arms stayed around each other, the record spun lazily to a stop, and the only sound was the rustle of wind through the railing and the faint crackle of the vinyl cooling down.

And then—

A very loud, very obvious whisper pierced the silence.

“OH MY GOD JUST KISS ALREADY—”

You both froze.

Bucky didn’t move his head from your shoulder, but you could feel him go completely still.

You blinked. “Was that—?”

CLANG.

The sound of a cereal bowl hitting glass.

You slowly turned your head toward the patio doors.

There they were.

Five adult disasters, all crammed in the doorway like a bunch of raccoons caught rummaging through someone’s fridge.

Yelena stood front and center, hands smushed against the glass like a toddler in a zoo exhibit. Bob was behind her, grinning so hard it looked like his face might crack in half. Ava had her arms crossed but she didn’t move. John Walker was pretending not to be watching while clearly watching. And Alexei was holding a half-eaten apple like he might use it as a dramatic prop.

“We weren’t watching,” Bob said immediately.

“I WAS rooting for the kiss though,” Yelena added unapologetically.

Bucky turned so slowly to face them. His hands never left your waist.

His expression?

Pure, stone-cold Winter Soldier Threat Level 10,000.

That blank, terrifying calm that said: I have fought aliens, Nazis, and my own brain. You do not scare me. But I will ruin you.

No one moved.

Not even Alexei.

Then—softly, calmly, in that voice that used to make grown Hydra agents piss themselves—Bucky said:

“You’ve got ten seconds to run.”

Bob screamed.

John tripped trying to turn around and crashed into the wall.

Ava vanished—literally—into thin air.

Yelena, ever the menace, just grinned wider. “You didn’t say which direction, Barnes.”

Bucky raised one eyebrow.

She immediately bolted.

Alexei didn’t move. “I do not fear you, Bucky. You are my tiny angry son.”

Bucky took one step forward.

Alexei dropped the apple and ran like hell.

The door slammed behind them, followed by a chorus of chaotic yelling and muffled laughter trailing down the hallway.

You turned back to Bucky, who looked only slightly regretful.

“They were trying really hard not to ruin it,” you said, amused.

He huffed. “And they still ruined it.”

You pressed your cheek to his chest. “I don’t know. I think you threatening their lives really added to the vibe.”

Bucky chuckled, low and warm in your ear.

He pulled you in closer and, without another word, began dancing again—no music this time. Just the sound of laughter echoing down the halls and the soft thud of his heart beneath your hands.

(You’ve got mail!) HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO my handsome, elegant, intelligent, charming, kind, thoughtful, strong, courageous, creative, brilliant, gentle, humble, generous, passionate, wise, funny, loyal, dependable, graceful, radiant, calm, confident, warm, compassionate, witty, adventurous, respectful, sincere, magnetic, bold, articulate, empathetic, inspiring, honest, patient, powerful, attentive, uplifting, friendly, reliable, ambitious, intuitive, talented, supportive, grounded, determined, charismatic, extraordinary, trustworthy, noble, dignified, perceptive, innovative, open-minded, composed, imaginative, mindful, optimistic, virtuous, noble-hearted, quick-witted, fearless, affectionate, expressive, emotionally intelligent, resourceful, delightful, fascinating, sharp, selfless, driven, assertive, authentic, vibrant, playful, observant, skillful, generous-spirited, practical, comforting, brave, wise-hearted, enthusiastic, dependable, tactful, enduring, tasteful, joyful, understanding, genuine, brilliant-minded, encouraging, magnetic, dynamic, radiant, radiant-spirited, soulful, radiant-hearted, insightful, creative-souled, justice-minded, tender, uplifting-minded, persevering, devoted, angelic, down-to-earth, golden-hearted, gentle-spirited, clever, courageous-hearted, courteous, harmonious, loyal-minded, beautiful-souled, easygoing, sincere-hearted, respectful-minded, comforting-voiced, confident-minded, emotionally strong, respectful-souled, imaginative-hearted, protective, noble-minded, confident-souled, wise-eyed, loving, magnetic-souled, expressive-eyed, brilliant-hearted, inspiring-minded, absolutely unforgettable AND GOLDEN GLOBE NOMINEE AND WINNER SEBASTIAN STAN !! 43 is such a sexy number 😩

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck @peanutbutt3rcup @piatosniathenie @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes

#fic rec #bucky #fluff

379 notes · View notes

mannien · 5 days ago

Text

two bodies riddled with scars

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

post TFATWS

Summary: Your past is catching up with you. When the ghosts you’ve tried to hide in your closet threaten your boyfriend, you have to revisit your past, do things you swore you’d never do again, and make a deal with the devil.

When Bucky is returned, you both help patch up each other's wounds. Physical and emotional ones.

wc: 5.7k

Tags/Warnings: Kidnapping, implied torture, mentions of murder! Made up lore for reader (Inferno is completely made up by me) Angst, hurt/comfort, heavily inspired by TV show scandal and based on request

A/N: To the person who requested this fic, sorry this took so long to post. I almost finished this like three weeks ago but didn’t have time to write the ending until now. Also I binged up until mid season 4 of Scandal that show is so fucking good. I hope y’all like this one. I really liked writing it and coming up with the backstory. beta read by @whats-yesterday00

Your phone started ringing as you put in your earrings. You quickly ran over to your phone to see the caller ID, expecting it to be Bucky. A sigh escaped you at the ‘Unknown Caller’ on the screen. Ignoring the call, you walked back to the mirror and finished putting in your earrings.

Bucky was supposed to pick you up soon for your date. The relationship was still fresh, only a few months old. You’d only just said ‘I love you’ for the first time last week. Yet after all the dates you’ve been on, Bucky always treated you like it was your first.

As you fixed your necklace, your phone started ringing again. A brief flash of hope ran through you until you saw the return of ‘Unknown Caller.’ You groaned with disappointment and turned away from your phone. Bucky never replied to your Sorry, I’m running a little late. Let me know when you’re on your way ;) text, so now it felt like the unknown calls were mocking you. Bucky was a bit old fashioned and had a habit of calling you instead of answering your texts. One of the many things you found endearing about him.

You finished adjusting your jewelry and grabbed your phone. There were still no updates from Bucky which was strange. It’s not that he had his phone glued to his hand. But considering you had a date planned soon, it was odd for him to not respond.

The phone in your hand buzzed and rang once more. The same annoying caller ID flashed on the screen for the third time. You muttered something under your breath as your thumb smashed against the green button.

“Who is this and what do you want?” you snapped, expecting silence or a telemarketer.

“I can’t believe you blocked my number.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the voice on the other end. The voice that reminded you of all the things you hated about yourself. That voice was the source of all your nightmares.

“Well, you missed birthdays 6 through 14 so, I guess we both just keep disappointing each other.”

“Sweetie, you know I was busy with work. I didn’t like bringing the office home with me,” the man answered with humor in his voice.

“I suppose you’ve got a point,” you played along. “What kind of parent would you be if you came home to your daughter on her birthday with your hands and coat covered in blood?”

You heard the short sigh leave his lips at your reminder of what life was really like all those years ago.

“Look dad, as much as I miss these little chats of ours, what do you want?” You shot back at him. “You and I both know you’re only calling because you want something.”

“Why do you assume I want something?” He sounded offended but you knew it was fake. He knew you were right.

“Because blocking you does nothing. You have an infinite amount of ways to contact me. But I did it to send the message to leave me alone.” You started pacing in your living room as anger slowly began to boil in your chest.

“So I’ll ask again,” your voice was laced with venom, “what do you want?”

There was a pause before you heard the voice again. “Your new friends, the avenging world saving ones, are sniffing around where they shouldn’t be. You’re tracking one of my associates.”

You stopped pacing the room. Your body tensed up at the mention of your friends. Ever since you met them, you’d hoped and prayed that they would stay far away from these people, this part of your life. The one you left behind years ago.

With your help, Sam, Bucky and Joaquin were asked to assist in the search for an assassin. That morning they had just discovered his identity.

“Dalton is one of yours?”

“Unfortunately,” he grumbled with disappointment. “And although he’s caused quite a bit of trouble for me, I am responsible for him at the moment.”

You shrugged, as if he could see you. “So, what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Tell them to stop their search. Let my men and I handle it and find him.”

You scoffed, knowing he was only asking to back off because Dalton's identity was exposed, and that put the rest of his men at risk. “If by handling it you mean hide him until the whole thing blows over? Then no.”

“Come on sweetie, I asked nicely,” he urged with fake kindness. Like a kind of poison that tastes sweet before it kills you.

“No dad,” you huffed as you pinched the bridge of your nose. “He blew up part of a building and killed three people! One of which was a government official. Unless you plan on turning him in I’m not interested.” Your voice slowly rose in volume as you spoke.

“I think you’ll be very interested in making a deal with me.”

His comment sounded far too suspicious for your liking. You hated the way you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Why’s that?”

“That boyfriend of yours lives up to his reputation.”

His comment made your heart sink.

“The famous Winter Soldier,” the voice on the phone continued. “It didn’t take him very long to realize he was being followed. He’s smart. He led them away from the public. A vacant area. No civilian casualties.”

Dread ran through your veins and made your stomach churn like you were going to throw up. Your heartbeat was pounding so hard it could’ve bursted out of your chest.

“It took eighteen of my men to bring him in. Eighteen! I’ve never had to use that much force in my life against one man. He’s impressive. I'll give him that,” your dad finished like it was a normal thing to talk about. Like he didn’t just kidnap a man- your man. The man you're in love with.

He talked about it like your entire world wasn’t crashing down.

You took in a shallow breath. Why is it hard to breathe right now? “Dad, I swear to god if you hurt him-“

“I won’t have to if we can make a deal,” your dad insisted.

“I take no pleasure from hurting my possible future son in law. You know, if you guys make it that long.” There he is again making jokes. Joking like this was a casual conversation.

“You always take pleasure from hurting people. That’s why you do it. That’s why you’re making this personal,” you snapped. Your eyes were burning. Tears were threatening to escape but you blinked them back.

“Let him go,” you warned through your teeth.

There was a pause on the other end, before your dad’s voice returned. “Back off.” This time he sounded calmer. His tone was darker and more serious than before. “If my guy gets arrested, if I hear anything about this group- what I’ve built- in the media or whispered between law enforcement, you'll lose a boyfriend.”

You almost hung up before his voice returned with one last thing to say.

“It’s quite a shame. James seems like a good boyfriend. He was buying your favorite flowers when we found him.”

The line went dead as a tear rolled down your face. You stared blankly at the floor like it was going to swallow you whole.

You didn’t know who else to call. Sam and Joaquin were at your apartment in 15 minutes. He might have run a few red lights. Give or take.

All three of you stood in your living room. None of you had even an ounce of calm in your bones.

Your mouth went dry and your throat almost closed up before you spoke. “I know who took Bucky.”

They looked at you with curious anticipation, on the edge of their metaphorical seats because you were all too tense to even think about sitting down.

“Inferno.”

Sam all but deflated, looking at the floor. “Man,” he mumbled under his breath.

Joaquin looked confused. He glanced between you and Sam, “what?”

“You sure about this?”

You nodded. Why is your mouth still dry? You grabbed a cup of water from your coffee table and took a sip. “Trust me. I’m sure,” you returned, voice firm. The cup didn’t slam on the coffee table when you set it back down, more like a hard meeting.

“What’s Inferno?” Joaquin interjected again.

“They’re a group of mercenaries, assassins, spies, hackers, basically anyone who will do your dirty work,” you explained. “They live normal lives but when hired for a job they steal, torture, make you disappear, make it look like an accident.”

“How do we find them?” he asked.

“That’s the problem. You can’t,” Sam answered.

“They’re pretty much a ghost story. It’s impossible to prove they exist let alone find them,” you crossed your arms. You still didn’t know what you were feeling. Emotionally that is. Physically, your stomach still twisted like you were going to throw up.

“What did the guy on the phone tell you?” Sam questioned. “What do they want with Bucky?”

“They have Bucky because of our search for Dalton. Dalton’s part of Inferno and somehow they know we figured out he’s the assassin.” You sighed, your breath shaky, and bit your lip before continuing. “He said, if we arrest Dalton or if word gets out about Inferno being involved… he’s gonna- he’ll,” the words died on your tongue.

Anger? Sadness? Dread? Maybe despair? No, none of those words were enough to explain the emotions you're feeling.

You cleared your throat, uncrossed your arms and ran them against your jeans. Something, anything to get rid of this feeling. “They don’t want to risk him getting arrested because that could expose their organization. Members of Inferno do not get arrested. They do not get caught. That’s why this is such a big deal.” This was starting to sound more like a rant and less of an explanation.

“They do whatever it takes to stay in the shadows.”

Anguish. Characterized by severe pain or suffering. Maybe that’s what you’re feeling.

Sam watched you with a simmering skepticism. You could practically smell the curiosity radiating off of him. “For an organization that’s supposed to not exist, you sound like you know a lot about them.”

There’s that tightness in your chest you thought was gone. Funny how it can come rushing back in seconds.

You swallowed down the lump that formed in your throat. “I may have a history with Inferno,” you said with hesitance.

He raised an eyebrow at you, “what kind of history?”

Now you three were sitting down. After the long explanation you offered them, they needed to sit down to absorb the information.

Joaquin leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Wow, that’s a lot,” he huffed, still taking it all in.

Sam looked less visibly shocked than Joaquin. His surprise was internal. You couldn’t see it on his face other than the slight tension in his brows.

“I thought you said your dad died years ago,” Sam pointed out.

“He might as well be dead. I haven’t spoken to him in years and I changed my last name to my mom’s.” Your hands played with your bracelets as you spoke. Fingers ran over the beads, focusing on the smooth material as a way to ground yourself.

Bucky bought you those bracelets as a gift.

You shrugged, “plus, there’s no way to casually say my dad runs the most secretive crime syndicate in the country. That I almost became part of said crime syndicate.”

Joaquin nodded, “that’s fair.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So, what do we do now?”

“We can’t let Dalton go free. But if we arrest him, they might-” You paused, and your breath came out shaky. “-they will kill Bucky.”

Sam stood up.“Okay, first, we hold off on telling the authorities,” he announced. “Say we still don’t have a name yet, we’ve hit a dead end. Buy ourselves some more time.”

“More time to what?” Joaquin questioned.

“Find him ourselves.”

The building was cold. Not so cold that you were shivering, but cold enough that you kept your jacket on.

You brought Dalton to a small abandoned apartment building. The heating obviously wasn’t on so the chilly fall temperature found its way inside.

He was tied to a chair in one of the small bedrooms. You didn’t know what was happening or what was being said because you waited outside the door in the hall. Instead, Sam and Joaquin went in first due to your reputation and history.

Dalton joined Inferno after you left so you had no clue who he was, but there was a chance that he knew who you were.

At the sound of the door opening, you pushed off the wall you were leaning against. Sam and Joaquin walked out, a little less energetic and hopeful than they were when they walked in.

“Well?” You asked with tense eagerness.

Joaquin shook his head, but Sam spoke first. “He won’t talk. Keeps saying he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. We’re getting nowhere with him.”

You sighed and rubbed your hand over your face. “We’re running out of time. My dad’s gonna find out we have him.”

The clock was ticking for the inevitable. You needed to get information, something, anything out of him.

You needed to find Bucky.

“I’m going in. I’ll talk to him.”

Sam’s face softened with concern, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Sam, I need to do this,” you answered, standing firm and as tall as you could.

He nodded and stepped out of the way of the door. You walked closer but froze as your hand held the door knob. “Can you promise me something?”

“Promise what?”

You couldn't see his face, but you could hear the worry and confusion in his voice.

“Promise me that once I close this door, you won’t come in here.”

He spoke your name. Not like a warning. But like he wanted to save you from something. Like he tried to stop you from jumping into the deep end.

“Sam, please,” you pleaded. “I’m saying this not just because you’re Captain America, but because you’re my friend.”

Sam was a talker. He always tried talking to people before throwing punches. That’s what makes him like Steve. That’s what makes him a good Captain America.

You’re not a talker. You weren’t trained- you weren’t raised to be a talker. At least not without giving a few bruises to show for it.

If you were going to revisit your past, you didn’t want him to see it.

“Promise me you will not open this door.”

There was a pause behind you. You could imagine the two men exchanging worrying looks before Sam spoke again.

“Okay, I promise.”

You mumbled back at him, “thank you,” before pushing the door open and crossing the threshold, back into your old life.

Dalton still sat in the chair they tied him to. Your footsteps echoed in the empty room, alerting him of your presence. He looked up from the floor and the corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly.

He knew who you were.

“Well well well, it is a pleasure to finally meet you Spin,” he said calmly.

Your expression was hollow. Your eyes were empty as you looked at him. “Can’t say the same about you.”

He smirked, “So, I must be in pretty big trouble if you’re getting involved.”

You crossed your arms and took a step closer. “They have my boyfriend as leverage. In exchange for you not getting arrested.”

“Well,” he looked around the room dramatically, “looks like you are doing a fabulous job at leaving me alone.”

You offered a fake smile in return. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, looking pleased with himself.

Your jaw clenched before you slapped him. The sound echoed off the walls. You braced your hand on the back of the chair and leaned down closer to him. “Tell me where they could be keeping my boyfriend, you son of a bitch.”

He still looked amused. “You really think I know? I didn’t even know they took him until your buddies asked where he was.” He shook his head and chuckled, “There are hundreds of places all around the country that he could possibly be at. You know better than anyone that the locations are constantly changing and are almost never permanent. And after you left, after I joined, the boss made sure to use extra precautions.”

There was a look of mischievousness in his eyes as he stared back at you. “You know he keeps tabs on you right?”

Your jaw clenched again. So hard you might break a tooth.

“The boss knows what you’ve been up to since you left. He asks us for monthly updates on you,” he continued with an evil smile.

Your grip on the back of the chair was so tight your knuckles turned white.

“I swear, I didn’t know they took your precious boyfriend, but I knew you had one. Which by the way-” He whistled. “-The Winter Soldier? I heard that you wanted to leave because we had too much blood on our hands.”

He looked you up and down, “Face it girly, your boyfriend has got more blood on his hands than any of us. You traded one monster for another.”

Your nostrils flared as you stared daggers at him. You released your grip on the chair and backed away. It took a few slow deep breaths to calm your breathing back down.

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t know,” you said, glancing around the room. Your eyes landed on another wooden chair. “I just had to be sure, before I used plan B.”

He tilted his head, “what’s plan B?”

In a quick motion, you took your jacket off and hung it on the door knob. Even with the slight chill in the air, you rolled up your sleeves.

“You tell me who hired you to kill those people. Tell me how deep that hit really goes.”

You walked to the chair, ran your fingers over the smooth wood. After picking it up by the backrest, you slammed it against the wall. Pieces of wood flew in the air as the seat broke off. You smashed it against the wall once more, until all you had left in your hands was a long back post.

With slow steps, you walked back to Dalton.

The amusement had fallen from his face as you placed the end of the back post under his chin to lift his head up to look you in the eyes.

The air in your apartment felt frozen in time. Frozen from the moment you got that stupid phone call and found out your worst nightmare was coming true.

Your body felt heavy, like it was trying to sink into the sofa. The longer you laid there the more you became paralyzed. Just staring at the wall, waiting for the time to pass. Which was moving excruciatingly slow.

It's been four hours. Four hours since an arrest was made and Bucky was supposed to be released as per your new agreement with your dad. Every second that rolled by was another second Bucky was still missing. And every second was pure agony.

After the first three hours, Sam drove you home, suggesting that you should get some rest. He offered to stay and keep you company. You told him you appreciate the offer, but you needed to be alone. He gave some pushback at first and advised against it. But at that point, it didn’t matter who was with you.

They weren’t Bucky.

It was starting to become hopeless. Thinking that your dad would give him back. Thinking your dad would really agree to the terms of your deal.

You never thought something like this would happen again. You knew there was a possibility, given who your father is. But after spending so many years away from him, you thought maybe just maybe, he might finally leave you alone. Leave your loved ones alone.

The sound of your phone ringing startled you out of your thoughts. You reached for it on the coffee table and looked at the screen. Unknown Caller.

You were tempted to throw the phone across the room until it smashed against the wall.

Unfortunately, you didn’t throw your phone against the wall. No matter how tempting. Instead you pressed the answer call button after staring at the screen.

“I hate you,” you shuttered under your breath, but loud enough for him to hear.

“Open your front door.”

“Fuck you,” you spat back into the phone. “You’re a piece of shit. You’re not my dad.”

“Open. Your. Front. Door.” He spoke slowly, enunciating every word.

Your head quickly turned to the door in question. Your eyes lingered there for a second. Weary to actually approach it. As if there was some cruel fate waiting for you on the other side.

But part of you was still hopeful. Part of you was still sitting there waiting for him to come home.

You peeled yourself off the couch and sprinted towards the door. So fast, you almost gave yourself a head rush. In seconds, you switched the deadbolt and opened it. On the other side you were met with relieved blue eyes. The same blue eyes you fell in love with long before you actually said “I love you.”

The voice on the other end of the phone came back. “I may not be your father anymore, but you will always be my daughter.”

The line went dead.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe like it was a lifeline. His face was bruised and bloody. A deep cut sat above his right eyebrow followed by a black eye that sat under it. There was dried blood on his neck like someone held a knife to it.

He looked like he had the shit kicked out of him. You’ve seen him bruised and worn out after he came back from missions, but nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

“Hi baby,” he muttered weakly with a small smile pulling on his lips. You couldn’t respond before his legs gave out and he collapsed on the floor.

You immediately followed him to the ground, gently placing a hand on his face and the other on his bicep.

“I got you, I got you.” You whispered to him.

You helped him stand back up, wrapping an arm around his middle and supporting his weight. He was overzealous in trying to walk, as if he was fine. You urged him to take his time, reassuring you’d help him walk every step of the way.

Bucky followed you to the bathroom. With your help, he settled on the floor, propped up against the sink cabinet.

You gently pressed your lips to his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” you muttered, before running to the kitchen. In less than one minute, you were back with an ice pack and first aid supplies.

“Here, put this on your face, it'll help with the swelling,” you handed him the ice pack and sat down on the floor next to him. With a damp cloth, you carefully wiped the blood off his skin, cleaning the wounds.

Silence fell over the room. All you could hear was the faint sound of the ac vent and the damp cloth running over Bucky's skin. His breathing had calmed down since you sat him in the bathroom, but he still seemed so tired. His posture was slumped. His head rested against the cabinet like he couldn’t hold it up.

As you cleaned off the blood from his arm, Bucky lowered the ice pack from his face to lift up his shirt. “There’s more,” he revealed a few more scrapes, bruising, and a deeper cut on his abdomen that would definitely need stitches.

There was no stopping the guilt boiling over in your gut and rising up in your throat.

“How’d you do it?”

You snapped back to reality, swallowing that guilt back down. “Do what?”

His voice was hoarse and quiet, “What deal did you make with your dad?”

“We found Dalton, brought him in. Went under the radar. Without the authorities,” You finished washing all the small wounds and dropped the washcloth in the sink.

“Technically it might be called kidnapping,” you cringed slightly at your previous actions.

“Depending on who you ask.” Bucky replied with a hint of humor. The corners of your lips threatened to perk up at his comment.

“Sam and Joaquin couldn’t get anywhere with him. He refused to talk to them so I tried. After some-” You hesitated, that familiar guilt rising back up and burning your chest “-different interrogation methods he finally talked.”

He noticed your hesitation, but didn’t speak on it yet. Instead, he let you finish talking, explaining what happened while he was gone.

“I found out who hired him. A senator who has a long history with Inferno. Used them to get elected, rig votes, blackmail people, the works. A few people found out so he hired Dalton to take out anyone who knew.”

You grabbed the first aid box and prepared the supplies to add stitches.

“I told my dad that we would let Dalton go and make the senator take the fall for everything. He agreed but only if absolutely nothing came out about Inferno being involved,” You froze, holding the suture in the needle holder. “I mean technically it is all his fault. The senator is the one who ordered the hit.”

Your voice fell. It was quieter, smaller. “He loaded the gun, I just had to lie and say he shot it too.”

Bucky interrupted your spiraling thoughts.

“You’re not like him.”

“I know.” You mumbled, barely audible. You didn’t believe him.

“Look at me.” He commanded calmly.

Your head perked up, your scared eyes met his. Both of them. He lowered the ice pack again to really see you.

Bucky’s voice was stronger now. It sounded more like him.

“You’re nothing like your dad.”

You brought in a shaky breath and thanked him with a smile.

You returned your attention to the wound. With careful hands, you pierced his skin with the needle. The suture ran through his skin, pulling the wound closed.

Bucky clenched the fist that wasn’t holding the ice pack. You heard a low, quiet groan from him. Normally his pain tolerance was concerningly high, but it seems after what he went through today his threshold for pain is much lower.

Just as you were almost done, tightening the ripped skin together, he hissed sharply from the pain.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” you cooed to him.

You swallowed nervously and tied the suture closed. The metal needle holder clinked as you tossed it back in the first aid box with a now shaky hand. The guilt was becoming overwhelming. It was burning your chest and twisting your stomach. Every inch of you except for your vocal chords were screaming.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, voice cracking. “I am so sorry, Bucky.”

He said your name in a soft tone.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my past. I’m sorry I lied about my dad being dead. I’m sorry you got hurt.” Your eyes became glassy, trying to blink away incoming tears.

His warm hand took yours, “This isn’t your fault.”

“But-“

“Don’t,” he interrupted, firm but not angry. “Stop blaming yourself for what your father did.”

You still didn’t believe him yet. But you knew he would keep telling you until you did.

“Still, this shouldn’t have happened to you.” Your head hung, looking down at your intertwined hands.

“I’ve been through worse.”

That sounded way too relaxed for your liking. The way he said it made your jaw clench. Like it was an easy thing to say. That it didn’t matter what crap he went through now after all the trauma he endured.

And the worse part, it sounded like he thought he deserved it.

“You’ve been through enough.”

That was something you’d tell him until he believed it. That his hurting should be done. He should never have to go through anymore pain.

You let go of his hand and reached for the gauze and bandages in the first aid box. Your hands still had a slight tremble as you placed the gauze against his skin. With the other, you wrapped the bandage around his abdomen.

“It should’ve been me.” you said under your breath, barely above a whisper.

“Baby.”

“It should’ve been me instead but because he’s a monster he always goes after the people I love. He knows that hurts more than any pain he could inflict on me. It's not fair to you.”

There was a beat of silence that followed your strained voice.

“Always?”

You hummed in confusion as you stared at the wrapping on his abdomen.

He leaned closer to you and asked in a quieter tone, “Has he done this before?”

Your face looked expressionless, numb, as you nodded.

“It’s the reason I left,” you confirmed. “That's why I lied and said he was dead.”

You went back to bandaging the rest of his smaller wounds.

He watched you with a careful gaze. “Who was it?”

Your thoughts traveled to a place you didn’t like to visit often. It felt like running your hand over a scar that has long healed, but still won't go away. That scar will always be there, deep, rough and dark against your skin.

“My best friend.”

You didn’t explain any further.

Didn’t say when. Didn’t say how. But you would one day. Bucky knew that.

He knew that one day you would feel comfortable enough to show him those old wounds the same way he has shown you his. How you ran your fingertips over the physical scars that bleed from his metal arm and into his skin as he told you about the Soldier.

Bucky knew that for now you’d reveal the bits and pieces of your past that your heart could handle.

You finally finished bandaging up the various cuts and scrapes that covered his body. The last bit of gauze and wrappings were placed back in the first aid box. You stayed seated next to him, leaning against the sink cabinet.

Bucky removed the now thawed ice pack from his eye and placed it on the sink counter behind him. He turned to fully face you. He watched your eyes scan over his now covered injuries.

“Why did they call you Spin?”

Your head shot up to meet his eyes. The nickname felt foreign coming from his lips. “What?”

“One of them said I was Spin's boyfriend. Was that your code name?” Bucky inquired.

The momentary surprise fell from your face. “Yeah it, was,” you nodded in confirmation.

“What does it mean?”

“Spin is short for spinster.”

Your lips just barely perked up in amusement. Only for a second. You didn’t recall the memory like you were fond of it, but rather you still couldn’t believe your life had taken that turn.

“None of them wanted to make a joke or nickname about how I was the boss’s daughter. That was too easy,” you answered with an underlining hint of humor.

“They called me Spin because I was a young woman in my 20s, single, and I spent all my time and energy on joining Inferno.”

Bucky tilted his head in intrigue. “You never became official?”

You shook your head. Bucky noticed the small flicker of light that started to return to your eyes was now dwindling again. “Nope. Not after what happened to my best friend.”

With his real hand Bucky reached out and held yours. Your fingers intertwined with his with a soft firmness.

“I never wanted you to get dragged into this. Ever. I wanted you to stay as far as possible from my dad and all this bullshit.”

You gently squeezed his hand with yours. Like if you even had a loose grip on him, he would disappear from your hold.

Again.

“You mean so much to me. I’m pretty sure I’d lose my mind if he-” You paused, the words caught in your throat, “if I lost you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky comforted, his Brooklyn accent slipping out. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

He brought your intertwined hands up to his mouth and pressed his lips to the back of your hand.

Your face softened at the action. He watched the spark return back to your eyes. “And I’ll always find a way to save you.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Aren’t I supposed to be doing the saving?” he asked with a playful smirk on his lips.

You grinned at him as your thumb ran over his knuckles, “We save each other Buck.”

His smirk turned into a loving smile before he closed the gap and pressed his lips to yours. He could feel your lips relax against his. Like that last bit of worry was crumbling away with the touch of his lips.

When you separated, he rested his forehead against yours, “I like that plan.”

#to read #bucky

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mannien · 5 days ago

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This will forever be funny af to me.

Bucky at his serious job vs Bucky doing illegal shit

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mannien · 5 days ago

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FOOL FOR YOU - Bucky Barnes

Summary: Cooking dinner for the team involves you against knives- and it so happens that you end up giving yourself a cut because bucky, being the handsome man he is, walks in the kitchen as you pick one up. Hidden feelings and worried bucky don't clash very well, especially when it's a reoccurring issue.

Warnings: 18+ friends to lovers, love confessions, fluff and crack, oblivious feelings, requited crush, public events, accidents, description of blood, reader cuts her finger, medbay visits, knives/cutlery, multiple injuries, hitting her head, drink spills etc, forceful/aggresive man (not bucky), team shenanigans, porn with a good amount of plot, p in v, fingering, oral (f!rec), heavy makeout, size kink, praise kink, creampie, unprotected sex, cursing, rough-ish sex, marking, light bondage

req: I need Bucky with the prompt "let me patch you up", the trope "friends to lovers" and please do nsfw... read full

w/c: 6,2k ･ a03 ･ prompt list ･

You had been fine. Had was the keyword there. Until he walked in. Strands neatly over his face, unintentional framing that led your eyes straight to his, the rough stubble that led down his jaw and made his face even more jaw-dropping.

You were cutting vegetables. You were doing it neatly, too. The team had requested all different kinds of foods this time for lunch, so you piled them up to lead into a vote, that led into another, and another- eventually you had given up with an exhausted sigh, announcing you'd combine them all.

Yelena gave you a wide grin, Bob a shy smile. Ava's shoulders perked up, Bucky silent as ways just huffed out, and Alexei boomed with laughter.

So that had you here, cutting up a salad, preparing spaghetti with a special 'surprise' sauce as Alexei had added, along with mac and cheese as if one pasta wasn't enough to satisfy.

It wasn't annoying per-say- just frustrating, clumsily dropped the butter, spilling a drop of milk when it lingered away from the pot, dropping a batch of noodles.

Now you were here, finally on the salad. The last piece of the holy trinity of disaster foods they'd set you up to make, almost like they were plotting to find you dead by the time it was ready.

Starting with cucumbers, peeling, then cutting and adding them neatly to the big bowl with the dust of your hands and a boast at how good you did so far.

The next was some tomato's, cut them- somewhat.. nicely, juice everywhere but still got in the bowl.

Lettuce before the sauce since you had a picky group of people who hated the thought of more leaves in food than necessary.

You thought you had finally cleared it. Past the point of horrible mistakes and no returns.

But then Bucky Barnes walked it.

Graced with a compression shirt that said post-training hunger and sweatpants that gave much more imprint than you wanted to tease yourself with. You tried not to.

Not to look down. Not to look at him at all.

But your heart raced. So did the tips of your fingers, and your cheeks flushed at the sight of him so casual and laid back around you, you swore he was humming a tune-

"Shit!" You exclaimed as you looked down to find a good amount of pain from below- oh fuck, oh fuck you were ridiculous!- you cut your finger cutting lettuce thinking about your teammate and friend undressing you!

"Are you okay, y/n- oh my god-" he, too, had the same reaction looking down at the mildly nauseating pool of blood there on the cutting board, and it might've tripped your gag reflex to have you heaving dry.

"Bucky-" you attempted to get out, "I've got you, stay calm okay? 'gonna get some paper towel real quick then take you down to medbay."

He was surprisingly...calm. But you quickly realized he wasn't- he was keeping it together for you. His shoulders were tensed, and he was hastily opening and closing cabinets like he was searching for a lost key to a very important diary, or top secret files.

He was mumbling under his breath, weren't you ever the annoying one-

"Found it. Give me your finger, sweetheart" blood loss and nicknames combined almost made you faint on the spot. "Let me patch you up."

You looked away as he dealt with the overwhelming view in front of him, a silly, stupid mistake.

"How'd you do this, hm?" There was no mocking tone to his voice, only a pinch of genuine worry.

You sighed in embarrassment, "Cutting lettuce 'nd got distracted from you opening the fridge.. need to cut back on those brownies mister"

He chuckled lightly at that, one of his palms landing on the plain of your back as he led you to the elevator.

"Do you feel lightheaded?" He asked.

"A little," you admitted, "The blood- blood isn't an easy sight either. Not my best moment."

He started to rub your back soothingly, trying to distract with light conversation-

What had you done today so far?

Plans for the week?

Did Valentina give you any new missions yet or just complain and it went in one ear and came out the other?

It became easy.. until the elevator dinged an unpleasant chime at your predicament, and you found yourself treacherously on a bed getting looked at.

Now you really felt sick- the pain amplified, whimpering while they checked it out.

Then suddenly, you were being wrapped in arms. Warm arms. Big arms. His arms.

"Shh, don't look, you don't gotta look." He cooed, rubbing the back of your head gently.

Your brain was running miles per hour and it definitely wasn't from your finger. What was this? What was this man doing. Bucky Barnes?

Silent lady killer, gruffs and groans, stubble and amazing hair after sleepless nights- was cradling you in his arms? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my-

"That was quick, wasn't it?" Pulled away from his chest, you almost sobbed to see the bright lights reminiscing of a doctor's office and the smell of disinfectant flood your senses instead of his cologne that drove you crazy. Inside and out sort of crazy.

"Y-yeah, very quick" you commented with the way of your finger, now looking at the bandage securely wrapped around it better than the paper towel substitute. But.. you sort of wanted it back. Because Bucky had done it for you-

You were insane.

Over the next few days, Yelena could tell you were acting.. weird. Too clumsy, too jumpy, and constantly on edge.

"I can't tell if you're very pent up or mentally unstable" she announced when she found you crouched in the kitchen, trying to find the garbage bags someone had stuffed way too deep in there for comfort.

"Mm, maybe both" you replied back, trying to have a sense of humor, yet she wasn't wrong.

Since that incident, you had gotten either Alexei or John to stir something together, but they always came out in disastrous mixtures and disappointing flavours that never combined exactly right.

Luckily, since then there hasn't been a screw-up so damaging to your reputation.

That was until he walked in again.

Perfectly timed, handsomely dressed, and strikingly distracting for someone with their head under a cabinet.

"Whatcha looking for?" Gravelly, and definitely curious, he witnessed you bang your head in an attempt to look up at him.

"F-fuck!" You'd done it again, except more embarrassing with two people watching, and a second time with Bucky watching.

He was immediately on alert, Yelena watching in interest as his body moved almost instinctively to your lowered form that was, in her case, very funny to watch struggle out from the small space that didn't allow any good amount of room.

You rubbed the spot that ached and throbbed at the hard whack it had taken to the bottom of the sink, Bucky kneeling down to carefully execute removing you from down below.

Huffing and nodding her head in I told you so, "Jesus! How the hell did you do that-" Yelena nearly yelled, very concerned, and very scared for your well-being at this point.

"Are you okay? Is it hurting?" Bucky asked as he parted your hair for any sign of a bad bump, or bleeding- anything that said otherwise of good.

Yelena watched in silent contemplation as you and him made small talk, almost familiar in a way that set off red flags from the get-go

She started to ponder.

She remembered the story from the last time, that suddenly, when Bucky walked in you had lost your concentration and ended up slipping up on your hold.

And now- he was back, and you were losing it again.

She had her eureka moment. And she was not going to let it go.

"Here, let me help," Bucky asked while holding out his hand for you to take, with you hissing out a strained okay.

"Let me take you to the infirmary again." He left no room for argument, yet you still tried to pester.

"Bucky it's really okay-"

"Let him take you!" Yelena barged in, weirdly boisterous and cheerful.

"I mean, if you really don't want to take her, I can, but-"

"I've got her." Matter-of-factly, He was already leading you there at this point, and you were stuck in his reaffirming hold. Though suffering through the pain and kissing your teeth while holding back grunts- you still had a hard time not becoming a flustered mess with his hand safely plastered around your waist.

It was gentle, yet firm, his cologne close and airy. It was both personal- whatever soap he used and something cedar or woodsy, filling your nostrils in the best way ever. Maybe that alone would do the job of making you feel better.

"How's it going there, two-timer?"

"Hah hah. Funny" he laughed a deep chuckle at that, taking in your shrunken, injured form again.

"How d'you keep getting into this situations?" He questioned, nothing mean nor rotten. He was questioning your very valuable ability to make yourself an embarrassment in front of him.

"I- uh-" but before you could even scrape up an answer, you had showed up at the medbay.

"Guess this is our stop for a second time. C'mon, I'll come with you again"

"oh, bucky, you really don't have to-"

"I want to. Promise"

"You're joking"

"Bob. See. You saw right? That was real?"

"that was very real, Yelena" they both whispered from the corner, eyes peeled to bucky escorting you in while promising to 'keep you very, very safe'. At least that's how Yelena put it.

"How long has this-"

"She's done this before. Every. time. he. walks. in."

"Every time?"

"Every time Bob." She was deadpanned, and deathly serious.

And when the two of you came back out, laughing, Yelena held her chest like a heart attack would strike her next- maybe it would with the view she was witnessing in front of her.

"Oh my god" Bob mumbled, more to himself than Yelena when he caught the little whispers of conversation here and there when he focused enough.

"Yeah, can't believe a second time..."

"very clumsy, always there to help..."

"Are they flirting?" She asked, eager.

"Worse."

"Worse? What could be any worse than that!"

"They don't know that they're doing it" She dramatically sighed while rubbing her temples, debating on just going up there and really putting it into the two of you.

"And it's just simple conversation- like neither of them know they're totally down bad-"

"NO!"

"Did you hear that?" You squinted when you scanned the area, bucky still accompanying you to your bedroom.

"Hear what?"He replied, feigning innocence

"I swear I heard a scream.. kinda sounded like Yelena."

He shrugged, "the usual Yelena type of activities" He hid the corner of his lips perking up well, as he knew for a fact it was her.

Well, he knew it was her and Bob- and heard everything they had whispered. Not yet. He convinced himself, not yet.

What he didn't know, was that the moment would come sooner than he thought- very soon.

When a gala came around, and that required you proper, cleaned up, and etiquette that has people's mouths down, flabbergasted.

But that wasn't going to be simple. In fact, it was going to be near impossible while James Buchanan Barnes was strutting around in a fancy suit, slicked back hair-

You were already salivating just thinking about the sight.

You tried to be as normal as you could within the time before it was set to happen. The few hours earlier had been spent away from him, in fact, solely with Yelena and Bob chatting away in your room about nonsense.

You and Yelena had swapped makeup, both doing different styles while also multitasking each other's while Bob sat and watched curiously or scrolled on his phone.

By the time you three were finished, it had already rolled around to the evening- your room was blasting music as you finally scooped the dress that had been laying on your bed all day to put it on, Yelena whistling when you came out the bathroom.

"Yeah?" You asked with an embarrassed little tremble to your lip as you grinned at their shared reaction.

"Yes." They said in unison, Bob patting some areas down while Yelena circled for the zipper on the back to do it up all the way.

The dress you picked had not-so-coincidentally matched the blue of Bucky's deep colored eyes, leaning toward a dark powerful blue that definitely spoke out. Doing your hair the way you liked it, you picked some of Yelena's accessories to spice up the lower cut that revealed a bit of your chest, leaving most to the imagination.

Both their eyes sparkled when you twirled, finished and gleaming within the dimly lit room that held two bundles of absolute excitement and enthusiasm.

"You girls ready? Bob asked while tightening his tie in the mirror while running a hand habitually through his half-slicked locks that ran a little frayed at the front, one sliver very apparent and giving him a gentle formal look.

"Ready!" You exclaimed as Yelena fixed her strays, Bob helping her put the outer coat of her suit on in practised precision.

"Ready m'lady's" she answered following behind your trail, finally exiting the stuffy warmth, evidence of your hour long hangout to the fresh conditioned air of the tower.

You all took a deep breath, both of nerves and the newly felt breeze before going to the elevator and heading down to where Val had planned it.

The first reaction to the area dressed and decorated left you all a little stunned before stepping out, the crowd apparent, and looking very royally scary and rich.

Rich in a literal sense that was- in a way that both your friends had gotten swiped by your side in no time by investors and top payers that they had no choice but to step aside with because Val had made it very clear that if you didn't- you didn't want to know what the consequences would be.

So you were left on the floor with a bunch of middle aged heafty men, and wealthy men all alone. So what does someone do in this situation? Very obvious.

"What can I getcha?"

The bar. Luckily most seats were unoccupied, and you ordered your usual that had you sipping every so often while people watching with a bored expression. Nothing alcoholic. Just something to pass the time.

It was nice, for the most part. Squeaky tiles and overdone little details that meant Val had it down very precisely to whoever was in charge of decorating.

You observed the different groups of people, mostly white-haired and delicately sewn and tailored on the arms that read off as prestigious, almost scarily so. Until you saw him

Like you knew, brown hair slicked back dangerously, stubble not shaved but grown preciously, with an edge that made him look even hotte-

Gentlemanly. Yes. And not very, very, hard to resist pouncing on. His jaw flexed as he spoke, and you could only imagine the gruff tone mixed with the softness of his speech. His muscles fit the suit perfectly.

Like it was sin, they stretched the fabric over every delicate line and bicep and that you clenching the glass in your hand tightly. It was nicely spanning for the expanses of his chest too, built torso and all were very exposed, very obvious to anyone who looked at the way it listened to his command and made him broad and delicious.

Somehow, someway, like he could sense the catch of your breath and the spike of lust and adrenaline flowing newly through you, he met your eyes.

His gaze softened, and his lips curled in tune. A smile reserved solely for you, and you gave one back. Like everything around you had zoned out, you were only focused on the man making his way toward you.

And with that came disaster.

It followed you everywhere. Especially towards the ones that definitely shouldn't have had to go through the misery of your heart and your weary hands.

Because when you raised from your chair to meet him halfway, you were met not with the crinkle in his eyes nor the lingering of his scent.

You were met with the big chest of an investor who got in your path, and suffered consequences when your drink had split all down the freshly dry-cleaned and ironed white shirt that now was stained, colored and ruined.

Eyes widening immediately, you went into shock as he started to curse off at you, muttering countless apologies as he went on.

The anger in his eyes never dulled, instead worsened when he gripped your arm with more strength then needed, unnecessary and outright scary when he started to shake you and explain dumbly like you were a toddler in need of a lesson.

That's when Bucky stepped in. A hand firmly rested on his shoulder, making the older man stop in his tracks and turn back to be met with the darkened gaze of the winter soldier targeted towards him.

You wouldn't say it was scary, no, that's not the right word. He was heavily intimidating. One of the men that you don't want to get on his nerves because you know for a fact he's not going to let it slide no matter what.

And with that, the man let go of you and led himself off somewhere stumbling like he was the one nursing a drink.

"Sweetheart? You alright?" You watched the scene dazed, and coming back when he made it to your side.

Some people heard the commotion and stopped to stare, most resuming their talks and looking away instinctually when seeing Bucky at the scene of the crime.

It didn't make him feel ideal, but in this situation he was glad that there were no eyes on you to make it a huge deal that you'd have to poorly clean up after with sullen apologies and Val's frustrating lectures.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak up at the moment.

"Let's go back to your room alright? Get you cleaned up some." When he said that, you finally looked down to see some residual of the liquid splattered on your hand where it once was, like evidence it all happened.

You let him blindly lead you, now listening to the hum of the elevator in comfortable silence.

"Did you.. uh-" he started, almost seeming hesitant to end.

"Wear that dress for a particular reason? Looks familiar."

You huffed a laugh, and nodded lightly.

"Yeah. I did"

"You did?" As he replied, you looked up at him, and he was of course already looking.

"I think you know."

"I-" he almost gulped. "I think I do."

The tension was palpable, but struck down when you took his collar in your fist and pulled him down.

He met your lips with no resistance, and whether it was hunger or devotion, both felt the same at the moment.

The moment you merged with his, everything about him was heavenly- your senses flooded with the way his tongue slid over your bottom lip, nipping to get it in your mouth, reining dominance as he explored you.

Your hands found his waist where they could, chest to chest now, heads slotted perfectly as the movements got sloppier. Fueled, he cradled your jaw and pulled you even closer. While his thumb absentmindedly traces you, you're fumbling with a crooked brow when he's still deepening it, slow and reverent.

His steady hands ground you to earth while he devours you, he's lightheaded when you both pull back and your breathing ragged.

A little breathy, he laughs when he presses your forehead to his, just taking in the contact and the resolved heap of unsolved feelings out in the open.

"I think you like me, Barnes."

"You sure?" He mumbles with a smirk, lost in the way you're still holding onto him like you never want to let go. Newsflash, you don't.

Still a little dazed, you have no motion to hold your words back now. "Unless it was just the dress?"

You question with a raised brow, and he chuckles loudly.

"Mm.. dunno- but it's definitely helping." His eyes scan down your figure, leaving nothing to be hidden as he takes it all in.

Whether the kiss or the view, he doesn't know, he's already half-hard.

"Did y'pick it just to tease me, sweetheart?" He asks as if he's not blown away and hiding his boner in the confines of tight dress pants

"Bucky, for the love of god, please take me to my room right now" As much as he tries to hide it, he's sinister grin throws the work away.

The request makes stutter for a second internally, mind running faster than he can process.

He takes one of your legs and lifts it up against his waist before pressing another kiss onto your lips, finding himself perfectly close to your ear to whisper,

"Jump" And so you do.

He holds your weight up effortlessly, no struggle nor tug of the arm as he leads you to your room with practised precision and with the speed of a man on a mission.

Legs curled around his beefy hips, you can pretty much feel every flaunt of his imprint against the open area of your underwear, heat infectious and utterly undoing when you accidentally grind into him chasing for the unknown friction and he grunts back with a twitch in his slacks.

When he finally makes it to your room, he's opening it hastily and plopping you softly down on the plush of your bed, taking in the image of you a little flushed, hair straying, makeup wiped off some and stained preferably to his lips.

"You're truly a vision, sweetheart." He's mumbling before reaching for you again, kissing you harder, messier, no attention to the way teeth may clatter and tongues might tangle. He's searching for that.

The ruin. The undone. And he hasn't even started.

His hands find their way down your figure, feeling every curve and inch of skin hiding underneath the masterpiece that's your outfit you picked that had his attention away from those old men and glittery women.

"Can I take this off you?" You nod, watching the fabric slip down when he reaches behind you to unzip it, raising your hips so he can fully pull it off before placing it with care on your chair.

"Fuck" he's licking his lips when you're below him, bra only and underwear soaked when he presses down right where you need him, arching into his touch.

He's kneading the padding of your breasts before kissing down your collarbone, biting and licking the skin to hopefully have purplish spots bloom later on to remind him how he tasted every inch of you.

"Bucky, need you s'bad" your reaching out to tug on his tie, and he listens.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?" The way he says it is intoxicating, gruff and dark. He knows exactly what it does to you.

"Yes, yes please-" In the midst of your pleas, he's settling down on the bed to perch himself between the plush and empty space of your thighs.

They were lonely until his breath fanned inside, teasing you devilishly with a couple kitten licks before his teeth dip in to the sensitive area, eliciting an unexpected yelp while you squirm, though it doesn't do anything except food for thought because his grip is firm-

You couldn't close your legs no matter how much you'd had liked to, when his muscles tense so nicely to keep you from hiding anything from him.

He works his way up, leaving the damp spot to grow, almost enveloping the whole piece. And when he finally, finally rubs small circles on your clit, you're immediately whining out for more.

"Bucky, god- I need more, please"

"You need s'more sweets?" Before you can respond, a finger is already tugging the underwear down your leg to find your glistening cunt in front of him, leaving nothing to the imagination now.

And suddenly, he's hungry- his fingers work as fast as his brain processes it, slipping past your entrance easily as your back lifts to chase the friction.

And when his tongue doubles down, you're almost screaming his name for the compound to hear.

"Fuck, you taste so fucking good sweatheart."

"Thank you, thank you" your babbling out when his fingers deliciously curling up like he's already memorized the spot that has you keening, lips latching onto your sensitive bud as he sucks first gently, then harshly when the force of the finger picks up to have you fleeing around.

The sight makes him delirious- his dick is fully hard, rubbing almost pathetically against the softness of your mattress and groaning into your taste mostly because eating you out is helping him get there. He could likely come undone without you even needing to lay a hand on him.

Though it helps when your hands find his hair, not caring about the style and how the gel's firmly in place. No, your latching onto what you can, clawing while holding on for dear life and bringing him closer, both riding him out and backing away.

"Soak my face, you're not getting away from me til you cum." Pussy-drunk and with no regrets, he's urging another one of his fingers into you, and two together are utterly huge. You're wondering just how much he has to stretch you open, the image of the cock hiding behind zipped up pants has you questioning how your sanity's going to be after this.

With how wet you are, it doesn't feel like a challenge to have them both moving in tandem, but the low, buildup in the pit of your stomach isn't showing any mercy when slow stripes and teasing blows of air to your clit turn into the most leg-trembling head you've ever recieved when he finds your clit and never lets it go.

He knows you're close, knuckles never letting up on his hair, and the way you're grinding yourself into him as him moaning- the vibration echoes back, making your rhythm stutter. A cry erupts from your throat, and your toes are curling almost numb.

Clit overstimulated and that spongy spot within you being targeted has the world fading, literally at his fingertips when he curls perfectly and as you soundlessly cumming to his command.

"Doing so perfect for me, sweetheart, christ." He's climbing up you, shaky but recovering when he collides with you again, tasting yourself and seeing the mess you had made when you feel it all over and integrated into his stubble like an oil he had put in.

"How the fuck are you so good at that?" Your voice is strained in a way that makes him huff out a laugh, and not to admit he's flattered that you find him so daringly good.

"Just.. passionate?" He replies while you're laughing back.

And then you feel something. Undeniably huge and aching up against you, the collar of his suit a little soaked with remnants of the night and his tie crumpled, beard glistening.

"you-"

"I think I might've came my pants already" he says it so casually, it almost sounds wrong.

"I want you, Bucky" because you can tell what's going through his head. the contemplation. The aftermath. But you want him on you.

Literally.

"r'you sure, sweetheart?" It's smitten almost, nervously so.

"Yes Buck, and if you don't unzip those pants I'm going to start humping you through them" he's making quick work now, watching him undress while you unstrap your bra as you laugh.

Except your face drops and your eyes widen when he's shirtless, and even moreso when his pants disappear.

You find yourself led downward, landing on every surface of a scar, scrape and bruise. To you, he's beautifully open to you right now and that means more than anything.

On the other hand, you're drooling because of how good he looks, all that's been hidden underneath those tight shirts and multiple layers. And you look down to be met with the most enticing sight of all.

"God Bucky, you're damn built- and holy fuck you're huge.. is that even going to fit.." you're mumbling the last part to yourself, but he grins because he hears it anyways.

"I'll go slowly, sweetheart, don't worry. You tell me if anything's wrong, alright?" Your heart thumps loudly when you realize how real it's becoming, and everything is swimming inside you with anticipation.

He pumped himself once, then twice as he was already red and aggravated- he was weirdly sensitive, too, the tip madly dripping pre-cum while his eyelids were dusted, looking back at yours to find the same lust-evident look.

Glassy and divine, he had lined up against your cunt, rubbing the tip to collect your juices and catching on your clit as you hissed.

"Please, Buck. I can take it, be your good girl." You whined, inching closer and closer desperately that was nothing short of lewd.

"Yeah? You can?" He growled, starting to push himself in.

"Mhm, yes- yeessss" the stretch was genuinely mouth-watering and almost borderline painful with his length and your pussy trying to accommodate it.

"You're doing so well, sweets- fuck you're squeezing me so tight" his breathes were deep and focused, thrusting almost to the hilt. His hands splayed themselves on your hips, almost bruising in a way that had you lightheaded with delight.

The sensation of his dick reaching every crevice and corner of you, so much so that when he laid a hand on your lower stomach, he'd pride you-

"Can feel myself all the way in, you're doing s'good, shit" the pressure was amazing, almost overbearing when he began a steady rhythm that had you doubling down on his name, a mantra that sang like music to his ears.

"s'pretty like this, below me with my cock deep in you-" when you had gotten used to the sheer size and girth the man had inside you, he bent down to take your nipple into his mouth, nursing it like he would a cup of his favorite coffee.

Nipping, your moans got louder when he bit it cheekily and thrusted upwards like he knew where to aim, hips flush against you and sweat beading down both your foreheads as sex and slaps of skin filled the room steadily.

He hasn't displayed his size properly- not yet, so when he runs his hands down the lengths of your arms to obtain your wrists with one palm while holding them together, everything kicks into overdrive.

Suddenly the way he's sucking on your breasts makes you squirm even harder. The way he holds onto your hands, firmly and you can see the outstretched outlines of his built veins that curve along his forearms.

Suddenly you're aware of his beefy girth, the one that's digging into you while he huffs affirmations in your ear. His free hand is bringing you back to him every time, you can feel his tuffs of pubs while your ass hits just right. He can't see it, but he doesn't need to. The view below him is just where he wants to be.

You can feel your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, gasping when he decides to fully bottom out, your breath is punched out of you and your pleading while your hands reach out to anything they can, familiarly in his hair again.

"Gonna cum, gonna cum deep in this sweet pussy. That okay, sweetheart?" You don't know how he's even forming coherent sentences, but somehow, someway, you're nodding back in agreement.

You hear his groans raise in volume as he bites down on your neck to save some dignity. You can feel the twitch of him present and every vein scraping the inside of your gummy walls- carving it out for his shape to be forever stained in paradise.

"Buck- m'cumming, oh my ffffuck cumming, don't stop" the noises that feel the room are downright dirty and obscene, and his hips are jerking mindlessly into yours, flush against you with force.

"never dreamt of it"

tears are stinging the corner of your eyes when you swear he's rearranged your insides, clenching down on him tightly as you feel your impending release. When it snaps, your absolutely spent, juices coating his cock as he pressed firmly into you.

Pulsing, he didn't let up, letting your climax hit with the pressure. In fact, it spurred him on. Panting, he was close too, hitting his almost at the same time.

mushroom tip filling you to the brim with rope after rope of his cum, legs twitching erratically and pussy utterly tender, and swollen. You could feel his seed everywhere, already probably dripping down your thighs.

He grazes your nipple accidentally, sore and sensitive when the overstimulation from anything and everything hits.

"Careful Buck" you sigh out, smiling crookedly at the bliss of the aftermath.

"You okay? Was it okay?"

"mhm- s'good buck. Real good"

He chuckled dreamily and mumbled, "let me get you cleaned up," retreating to the bathroom to find a cloth hung up to wipe you down, his cum that had spilled out and ran down the inside of your thighs that had him resisting the blood flow down to his dick again.

Your eyes stayed closed before you felt the weight of the bed dip down, his presence known and back by your side where you wanted it. He pressed a peck to your check, nose and then mouth before running a hand through your hair.

"Little sweaty there"

"Mm- don't care. Gonna take care f'you anyways"

You hummed while he did so, admiring your wrecked form. Nothing short of wonders in his mind, he was content while he put a hand over your waist- almost like a claim.

Protective, and saying something words hadn't yet. He broke the silence first.

"Tomorrow- let me take you out. Real dinner. Real date and everything." His voice was a little used, but the way he rubbed soft strokes on your waist told you everything.

"Not going to let me cut myself again, Barnes? What a gentleman" he snorted at that, planting playful kisses in the corners of your neck.

"Can't let my girl get injured again. Wouldn't be proper." Your cheeks flushed at his words, and your hands stilled where they hung over his neck.

"Y-your girl?"

"I knew from the start but.. whenever I saw you get cut like that- I was worried and i- it just made me think of everything else I could've been patching you up for and not just a cut finger. How I wanted to be there if it happened again"

Leaving him with no room to ramble, "Of course, buck"

"Yeah?" He asked with a boyish smile.

"Yeah." You said, stealing a kiss from him.

You slapped his chest when he went in for another, pouting when you wouldn't let him reach you.

"That scream was Yelena, just so you know"

"I knew it! Damn you-" you faked an angry face before asking, "What was she screaming about anyways?"

"I- uh... nothing important, trust me."

THE MORNING AFTER...

The two of you woke up, soaked in each other's embrace and yawning in tandem, legs tangled and pillows thrown to different edges and corners of the bed. You didn't want to leave- warmth radiated off of him, his hand spanning safely to encase you, and tightening every time you threatened to move

"Buuuck- gotta let me get up- needa pee" you rubbed your eyes, and when you opened them he was right next to you.

"mmmff- sweetheart.."

"Don't you dare say five more minutes" he sighed, rolling himself over dramatically to face the wall.

"Hey- you said ten minutes an hour ago! Don't get all fussy!"

When you wrestled yourself out of bed, the two of you eventually made it to the kitchen, unintentionally in his worn, huge t-shirt that you had stolen when you transferred to his room to access a toothbrush. He wore a hoodie and shorts combo- something you definitely wouldn't see on him unless it was a great day.

Yelena was sat on the counter and Bob doing the dishes, both chatting and laying down banter. Until you walked in.

"Did a shark get to you while sleeping?" She commented, whether amused or concerned you couldn't tell.

"What?" You said sleepily, eyes dreary and still half closed.

Bob tripped over his own feet at the sight while putting a dish away, "Jesus!"

You finally realized when you looked down and saw the sea of bite marks. Some purple, some lightly faded already and some skimming yellowish tints.

"Shit" you muttered, hearing their snickers in the back "Hey- you guys! Shut it!"

"Guess you're not pent up anymore!" Jumping off the counter, she ran with a speed never seen before as you chased her around the living room, loudly yelling her name with fire in your eyes.

Bucky was around the corner, watching the situation unfold with a tiny smirk on his face. He hoped to add more love bites to the collection soon.

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

#to read #bucky

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mannien · 5 days ago

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𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝙷𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢

✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

✮ Summary: Bucky leaves his laptop open. You peek. What you find in his search history sends you into a full meltdown of the best kind.

✮ Genre: fluff, crack + softness, emotional!Bucky, oblivious boyfriend behavior, accidental confessions, best friends to lovers, you’re already in love but now you’re sure

✮ Word Count: ~1.2k

✮ Author Notes🖋️: He’s in love. Deeply. Dumbly. Entirely. And apparently, he’s trusting Google with his feelings before you 😭💗

You weren’t snooping. Really. You weren’t. You were just trying to pull up Spotify on Bucky’s laptop while he was in the shower. Totally innocent. Totally not looking for anything private.

And then… you accidentally brushed the trackpad. And his browser popped open.

And his search history was right there.

You squint at the top entry.

“how to flirt without sounding desperate”

Oh. Oh no. Your heart stutters.

You scroll down one line “does soft girl love metal arm”

Your jaw drops.

“how to propose with no ring but max love” “can you marry your best friend without them knowing” “what does it mean if she always looks at your mouth during arguments” “why is she so pretty it hurts”

You cover your mouth with your hand. Are you crying or laughing? Who knows.

You hear the shower shut off. Panic hits. You slam the laptop closed like you’ve just committed a federal crime.

⸻

He walks into the room in nothing but a towel and a blush, rubbing water from his face “Hey, did the music stop?”

You’re still frozen on the couch, laptop on your lap, hands clenched like it might explode “Y-Yeah. I—uh. It glitched.”

He doesn’t notice. Just walks over, presses a kiss to your head like he does every day.

Like you’re his. (Because you are.)

He plops down beside you. “Movie night?”

You stare at him.

The man who just googled how to propose with no ring but max love. The man who’s been “casually” in love with you for months and has apparently been consulting Google dot com about it like it’s a therapist.

And suddenly, it hits you. He’s terrified.

He loves you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you. So he’s been asking questions he doesn’t feel brave enough to say out loud.

God.

You’re gonna cry again.

He notices your expression shift. Brows furrow “Hey… are you okay?”

You nod, quick. Too quick “Just thinking.”

He shifts closer, presses his forehead to yours “’Bout what?”

You swallow. Then smile. “About how I’d say yes, even if you didn’t have a ring.”

His breath catches. You feel it.

Slowly, so slowly, he pulls back and stares at you “What?”

You smile wider, heart in your throat. “Max love, remember?”

He turns red. Full-body flush. Ears. Neck. Even his chest “Oh my god,” he whispers. “You saw.”

You nod. “I wasn’t snooping—”

“No, no,” he mumbles, hiding his face in his hands. “I’m an idiot.”

“You’re adorable.”

He groans. “That’s worse.”

You giggle and climb into his lap, cupping his face “Bucky Barnes,” you whisper. “I love you. Desperately. Fully. And yes, even the metal arm.”

He peeks at you from between his fingers “Even when I google dumb things like ‘can you marry your best friend without them knowing’?”

You press your forehead to his.

“Especially then.”

───────── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @maifics @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @chriszgirl92 @heyrosh @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @sashaiz01 @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid 🫶🏻🌻🤍

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

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mannien · 5 days ago

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Happy 43nd birthday Sebastian Stan — August 13, 1982

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mannien · 5 days ago

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“I fear sometimes that people sort of see me a certain way from some of these roles, and I can’t wait for the opportunity to be like, ‘I’m such a dork!’ Really, really — I’m such a dork. I just pretend to be cool.”

Happy Birthday Sebastian Stan! (August 13, 1982)

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mannien · 7 days ago

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i have an idea for a fluff drabble.. like bucky is on anesthesia and hes sooo out of it and now reader is touchin is chest or his hair and he says tells her to get off or his wife/reader will see, then reader tells him that she’s his wife the heart monitor speeds upp and he flirts with her

Heart Monitor

husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader

tags: fluff and humor, clingy bucky who loves his wife so much, hospital, super soldier on anesthesia.

word count: 1k

A/N: THIS IS SUCH A GOOD IDEA??? I’m so giggling at this oh my god! Had to write it almost immediately.

Normally, your super soldier husband wouldn’t need surgery. Bones mended themselves in days, bruises vanished overnight—he’d once sprained his wrist and been fine before you could even grab the ice pack.

Apparently, though, even a super soldier’s body has limits. And as you’d both learned the hard way, if a bone heals wrong… it still has to be re-broken and set the old-fashioned way.

And anesthesia? Oh, anesthesia worked on them just fine. Bigger dose, sure… but still worked.

That was a new discovery.

Now here he was, laid out on the hospital bed, hair mussed and hospital gown looking far too flimsy for someone who could take down a room full of people in thirty minutes.

His pupils were huge, his cheeks flushed, and there was a slightly crooked grin on his face—like he was in on a joke no one else knew.

You sat down beside him, brushing your fingers lightly through his hair just to smooth it back from his forehead. His eyes followed the movement lazily before he frowned and lifted a weak hand to push yours away.

“Hey—hands off,” he slurred.

You blinked. “What?”

“My wife’s gonna see,” he said, dead serious.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing. “Your wife?”

He nodded, still glaring at your hand like it was the problem. “Yeah. She’s gorgeous. Way outta my league. Wouldn’t like you touchin’ me like that.”

Your heart melted a little at that, warmth bubbling in your chest. Leaning in close, you whispered, “Bucky… I am your wife.”

There was a pause. His brows furrowed as if his brain was trying to work overtime, gears turning painfully slow under the anesthesia haze.

“No way,” he breathed, eyes going wide. The heart monitor at his side immediately began to beep faster. “You’re my wife?!”

“Yes,” you said through your laughter, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “I’m your wife.”

His mouth dropped open, and for a beat he just stared at you like he’d been handed the moon.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, “you’re… you’re like… stupidly beautiful. Like illegal beautiful. They should arrest you.”

You tried not to laugh. “Arrest me?”

“Yeah,” he nodded gravely, then winced at how slow the motion was. “Put you in… in hot girl jail. Life sentence. I’ll visit every day.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, shoulders shaking. “Buck—”

“Wait, no,” he interrupted, eyes widening. “I’ll break you out. Yeah. I’m the Winter Soldier. I’ll bust you out of hot girl jail. We’ll run away together and then live together.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold it together. “We already live together.”

His brows furrowed like this was brand new information. “We do?!”

“Yes,” you laughed.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, leaning back against the pillow. “I really married you? I’m a genius.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re delirious.”

“I’m romantic,” he countered, the heart monitor beeping a little faster. “God, you smell good. Like cookies… The ones with sprinkles and stuff…”

You lost it, laughing so hard a nurse peeked in to check.

Bucky squinted at her like she’d just interrupted something important. “Hey. Hey—do you see her?” He pointed at you with the determination of a drunk man about to start a bar fight. “That’s my wife. Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen? Tell her.”

The nurse’s lips twitched. “She’s very pretty.”

“Very pretty?” Bucky scoffed, appalled. “She’s—she’s like… a flower—no, not a flower. A whole bouquet of beautiful flowers.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Please stop.”

„Or a cheesecake.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Cheesecake?”

“Yeah,” he nodded solemnly. “So sweet... A little dangerous if I have too much of you. But worth dying for.”

You burst out laughing again.

“I’m not even joking,” he went on, his tone growing almost conspiratorial. “If someone put you in the middle of a Hydra base and told me it was a trap, I’d still walk in. I’d kick the door down.”

“Bucky…” you groaned, shaking your head.

“And then I’d carry you out over my shoulder while explosions go off behind us,” he continued, clearly on a roll. “Slow motion. Like in an action movie…”

You gave up trying to hide your grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smiled lazily, heart monitor still beeping faster. „Yeah. No. Maybe. But I’m yours. Like completely yours. All yours. Like, you own all the rights. Trademarked. No one else can have me. You’d have to sue them.”

You snorted. “Sue them?”

“Yeah,” he said seriously. “Take ‘em to court. I’ll testify. ‘Yes, Your Honor, I belong entirely to this woman. No refunds.’”

You shook your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing again.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, trying—and failing—to glare. “I’m deadly serious. You’re my wife. You’re my… my greatest treasure. Like… like the Infinity Stones, but sexy.”

You completely lost it.

Bucky just smirked smugly, letting his eyes drift shut again. “That’s right. Sexy Stones.”

“Yeah, okay,” you finally managed between laughs, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I think you’ve had enough, Sergeant. You better go back to sleep, okay? You’re embarrassing me, sweetheart.”

His eyes flew open like you’d just suggested abandoning him in enemy territory. “Nooooo,” he groaned, dragging the word out, “I don’t wanna sleeeeeeep…”

“James Buchanan Barnes—”

“Oh no, not the full name. It’s getting serious. Isn’t it? Ugh. I just wannaaaa kiss youuuuu,” he whined, pouting like a sulky teenager. “Pleeeeeease… just one. Little one. Tiny smooch. Doctor’s orders. Makes me heal faster.”

You raised an unimpressed brow. “Oh, so now you’re a doctor?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, slurring through his grin. “Doctor… uh… Handsome. Specializing in… kissing my wife.”

You laughed so hard you had to turn away for a second. “Sweet dreams, Doctor Handsome. I love you.”

You leaned in and pressed a soft peck to his lips and he grinned stupidly.

“I love youuuu…..,” he mumbled, eyes already closing again.

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

divider: @cursed-carmine

💌 tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2

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mannien · 7 days ago

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okay imagine bucky and his son pull a prank (it can be whatever, you choose) on reader but she gets really scared and now she's not talking to them (she's very mad) so they conspire together to coax her and nothing works so they resort to funny dramatics

So in total it's just fluff, drama and chaos

bucky and son are menaces together. i can absolutely see it

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It starts with a thud.

Then your son’s voice yelling from the living room, panicked and high-pitched: “Mama! Papa fell!”

Your heart leaps into your throat. You drop the laundry basket and bolt down the hall.

When you burst into the living room, you find Bucky sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, tongue lolling out of his mouth like he’s starring in a bad soap opera. Your son is crouched beside him, shaking his shoulder.

“He just—he just collapsed!” your son gasps, wide-eyed.

“Bucky—” You drop to your knees, grabbing his face. “Oh my God, what—”

And then he snorts. His eyes snap open. “Gotcha, doll.”

Your son collapses into giggles beside him.

It takes you three whole seconds to process. “You pretended to collapse?”

Bucky grins like this is the funniest thing in the world. “C’mon, doll, it was just a prank.”

Your heart is still hammering. “A prank? You made me think you were—” You stop yourself, shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m done with you two.”

You stand and walk out of the room.

Bucky sits up, frowning. “Uh-oh.”

Your son looks nervous now. “She’s mad, huh?”

“Oh, she’s mad,” Bucky says, running a hand through his hair. “But don’t worry—we’ll get her back.”

Stage One: Sincere Apology They approach you cautiously in the kitchen ten minutes later.

Bucky’s holding out a mug of coffee. Your son’s clutching a plate of cookies.

“We’re sorry,” Bucky says. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”

You take the coffee but don’t look at them. “Uh-huh.”

“We thought it’d be funny,” your son tries.

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky grimaces. “So… you forgive us?”

“Uh-huh.”

“…That’s not a real ‘uh-huh,’ is it?”

You walk away.

Stage Two: Bribery An hour later, you find your favorite blanket folded on the couch with a sticky note: For Mama – Open When You’re Ready to Forgive Us.

Underneath the blanket is a bar of your favorite chocolate and a new paperback from your TBR list.

You smile in spite of yourself… but you leave the items where they are.

From the hallway, you hear your son whisper, “She didn’t take it.” Bucky sighs. “We need bigger guns.”

Stage Three: Dramatics That evening, you walk into the living room and stop dead.

Bucky is lying face-down on the rug again, but this time he’s holding a handwritten sign that says Life is meaningless without your forgiveness.

Your son is draped across the armchair like a Victorian child wasting away from heartbreak, holding a bouquet of dandelions.

“Is this… supposed to work?” you ask flatly.

Bucky lifts his head just enough to look at you. “I’m perishing, doll.”

Your son groans loudly. “We’re wasting away!”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

Bucky sits up, looking triumphant. “She laughed. We’re in.”

Your son jumps up, thrusting the dandelions at you. “Does this mean you forgive us?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. “Fine. But next time you want to prank me, make it something that doesn’t shave five years off my life.”

Bucky pulls you into a hug, muttering into your hair, “Noted, doll.”

Your son grins. “So… water balloon fight tomorrow?”

You glare at Bucky over your son’s head. “You’re not allowed to answer that.”

Bucky just smirks. “We’ll take that as a maybe.”

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mannien · 7 days ago

Text

Loads of Laundry and Loaded Guns

Summary: After some much needed R and R, you and Bucky decided that you were going to tackle two things that needed to be done: Laundry and cleaning weapons. You know, normal chores that everyone does.

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x gn!reader

Words: 3.3k

Content: Fluff, established relationship, very vague and inaccurate depictions of cleaning guns (I’m an unknowledgeable Canadian, sorry), some team banter, John Walker being the punching bag but he’s my punching bag (affectionate)

A/N: I’m a procrastinator when it comes to laundry so what do I do instead of doing it? Yes, I write a fic about it. Maybe it will motivate me to actually do my household chores this week, who knows lol. Anyways, here’s a slice of domestic fluff with a side of knives and guns.

Finally, a slow and mundane day.

For once, it felt like you and Bucky were able to take a real deep breath, one that wasn’t cooped up inside jet walls where the air starts to get stale, or inhaling dust that flew in the air whenever fights broke out at mission designations.

All the tension and stress had finally uncoiled from your back and shoulders, and the pinpoint focus you held in your mind melted away for more of the simple things in life.

After some days off to rest and relax, a straightforward task where you could let your mind wander and you could get it completed on your own time was just what you needed.

Chores, while they might be tedious for some, you found that it was just what you needed after constant missions and charity galas that Valentina forced the team to attend. And as a bonus, you got to spend time with your boyfriend outside of missions.

Today, you and Bucky decided that you were going to tackle two things that needed to be done: Laundry and cleaning weapons.

You know, normal chores that everyone does.

Due to being away from the Watchtower for so long, Bucky’s black compression shirts and underlayers had slowly accumulated into a humongous pile. It didn’t help when his clothes were tossed haphazardly in between missions with no time to wash them. Not only that, but his Henleys were also the cherry on top that were in need of cleaning.

And for your guns and knives, well they’ve seen better days and were in need of some repairs. You lost count of the amount of fights you had to participate in for the last month that it was practically a blur. So when you say you don’t remember when your knife got a tiny chip in the blade, you really don’t know when or how. You were deadset on getting the chip ground out and your guns cleaned out, that is, after you started your day with breakfast.

Despite the chaotic background noise of the team preparing breakfast this morning, you and Bucky managed to carve out a space for yourselves before starting the day, spending a slower morning together without a looming deadline hanging over your heads.

Quiet conversations were shared between the two of you as your shoulder gently brushed against his while moving throughout the kitchen. Bucky’s playful hip checks and loving smiles were reserved for you, making you momentarily forget about the bickering among your teammates (You pretended to not see Ava roll her eyes and flat-out ignored Walker’s fake gagging noises when you pressed a brief kiss to Bucky’s lips). Your heart never failed to flutter at his soft grins that were hidden behind the lip of his mug and the steam of his coffee.

When breakfast was finished, and everyone was off to do their own things, Bucky kissed your forehead and temple, his beard lightly scratching against the skin above your brow. With a gentle squeeze at your hip from his vibranium hand, you and Bucky said quick “see you later’s” and went on your separate ways, planning on meeting up again later in the day to do your chores together.

After grabbing an empty duffle bag from your shared room, you slowly began to collect your guns and weapons, starting with the ones you had left in your holsters attached to your suit. Placing them in the bag, your eye quickly scanned the myriad of things that were left lazily on your desk, the clutter taking up all of the surface. From the data pads that held mission details to the multitude of knives lying about, your desk hasn’t been cleared or seen the light of day for a while.

You paused as you reached for your knife, eyes drifting towards Bucky’s that was in its sheath sitting beside yours. Fixing the strap draped over your shoulder, you checked the space in the duffle bag, noting the amount of free space you still had left.

While you intended to clean and fix your own weapons, you thought you might as well give Bucky’s weapons the same treatment. You already had the sharpening stone at the bottom of the bag along with the cleaning kit, but you also thought it would be less work for him to do for the rest of the week.

Grabbing his knife, recognizing it as the primary one he uses, you tossed it into your bag. One by one, you plucked more of Bucky’s knives off your desk, snagging his secondary blade, his backup dagger, his backup knife for the backup dagger… You can never have too many blades in Bucky’s mind.

After searching for the rest of his knives scattered around your bedroom, yes, even the one he kept beside his nightstand, you continued scouring the rest of Watchtower. You went on your personal scavenger hunt, scanning rooms that might hold yours or Bucky’s weapons. You made sure to thoroughly look through the armory that stored the entire team’s weapon supplies, but also double-checked the jet for stray pistols or blades that belonged to you.

You winced under your breath, your shoulder starting to strain under the weight of the heavy duffle bag as you walked through the halls. You headed towards the living room area where you planned on meeting Bucky. In hindsight, you realized that you should have gotten a cart to haul all your stuff in, but you were already close to the living room and you intended to have the TV on in the background as you cleaned and tinkered away.

Just as you plopped down your duffle bag beside the couch, Bucky strolled in, holding two large plastic baskets of laundry. One basket sat on his shoulder, his vibranium arm keeping it secure as he held the side of it. The other basket, he held the handle in place and balanced it against his hip with ease. With the super-soldier serum, he held the laundry baskets without breaking a sweat.

Plopping the baskets down in front of the couches, he rested his hands at his hips, blowing a piece of hair that accidentally got into his eye. As you peered into the piles of clothes, something caught your eye. While Bucky’s clothes took up the majority of it, swimming underneath were some of your clothes, recognizing some of the shirts belonging to you. Brows furrowed, you pointed at the baskets.

“You did my laundry too?”

Bucky tucked his hair behind his ear. “Yeah… Thought I would kill two birds with one stone and do all of our laundry together.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking away with the slightest sheepish look in his eyes. “Saves time and water instead of doing separate loads, but also it’s one less thing for you to worry about.”

A smile rose on your lips, your heart warming at the gesture. Stepping forward, you rested your hand against his metal forearm, feeling the vibranium cool to the touch.

“You’re the best, thank you.” You pressed a kiss to his jaw.

“No problem.” He chuckled, flashing you a gentle smile.

“I think we’re on the same page today.” You laughed, making him furrow his eyebrows in slight confusion.

Grabbing and unzipping the bag, you showed him its contents. Inside was a sight to see with a mix of your pistols, Bucky's various guns, and sitting on top was your dagger among Bucky’s collection of knives.

Bucky’s eyebrows suddenly raised, a chuckle of disbelief escaping his lips, “Why do you have all of my knives in there?”

“Well, when I was grabbing my things, I thought, might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?” You shrugged, using Bucky’s words right back at him. “But it looks like you beat me to it in terms of doing something nice for each other.”

His eyes softened and a gentle smile lifted on his lips. Pressing a kiss to your cheek, Bucky mumbled into your skin, “You’re the best.”

Heat raised under your cheeks as you grinned, tilting your head towards the couch, “C’mon. We got work to do.”

With a random TV show on in the background, you sat down on the couch and placed the sharpening block on the coffee table. You began to grind the blade of your knife, gliding it away from you in even strokes against the stone. Bucky sat beside you, leisurely folding t-shirts on the couch beside him and separating your clothes from his.

When you got to Bucky’s abundance of knives, you made sure to be careful with how much you sharpened the edge of the blades. Not enough sharpening, it would be too dull to use, but too much grinding would thin the edge, making it too brittle.

The rustling of clothes and the swipes of knives against the block filled the room along with the buzz of the TV. You and Bucky looked up at the TV here and there in between your tasks, sometimes diving into small conversations to pass the time.

Once you were finished with Bucky’s knives, you passed a few to him for his assessment. Taking his favourite knife, he tested the sharpness, the pad of his thumb barely skimming across the edge of the blade. With a smirk, he began flipping his knife in his hand, spinning it around his fingers with precision before tossing it into the air. Of course, he caught the handle flawlessly.

You rolled your eyes, “Show off.”

Bucky bumped your shoulder teasingly, placing his knife back into the sheath.

“You passed inspection.”

Placing his knife on the coffee table, he lined it up with all of the other knives you had displayed out, all newly sharpened and ready to be used on the next mission.

As Bucky began to fold up his Henleys, you started fixing your pistols, disassembling parts and using the brushes that came with the cleaning kit to clean out the barrel. A mix of laundry detergent and gunpowder drifted towards your nose, two scents that have become very familiar to you after getting used to living in the Watchtower.

Everything was going smoothly until you got to one of Bucky’s guns. You couldn’t detach the parts, trying to pry them away and feeling them barely budging in your hands.

“I think I need your help with this one, Buck.” You grunted after one last attempt at using all your strength.

Handing over Bucky his gun, you wiped your hands on a spare rag. He grimaced as he tried to pull it apart, not a single thing moving. You raised your eyebrows in surprise. Not even his super-soldier strength was making a difference.

“What in the world did you do to it?” You chuckled.

With a sigh, Bucky looked down at his gun, holding it in his right hand as he pinched his nose bridge with the other.

“...Remember that HYDRA base a few missions ago? I, uh, pistol whipped someone with it.”

You widened your eyes, immediately questioning how hard Bucky whacked someone to the point of his gun being completely jammed. He cut you off before you could get a word in, “I mean, he had a helmet on at least.”

With a shake of your head, you decided to take over folding duty, moving to sit on the other side of Bucky to reach for the laundry basket. You folded while Bucky fixed his guns that were in need of dire care. When he finished cleaning, or straight-up tossing a gun away when it couldn’t be salvaged, the chores switched, him going back to the laundry and you with your weapons.

This went back and forth for a while, the two of you working like a well-oiled machine with perfect synergy. Fixed and cleaned pistols were laid out on the carpeted rug that took up the living room, giving you a visual of your progress.

All of that progress stopped momentarily when two pairs of echoing steps halted near the entrance to the living room area. Bob and John froze in place, looking at the state of the room with expressions ranging from amusement to some confusion, or from John, being straight-up baffled.

The sight was a bit ridiculous. There was still a decent pile of laundry that sat crumpled on the couch, waiting to be folded, neatly stacked clothes sat in one of the baskets, and spread across the rug were all of your and Bucky’s weapons combined.

“You guys know that domesticity usually revolves around household chores, right? Cooking in the kitchen, cleaning up the place… Not bring out your entire weapons arsenal to fix?” John pointed at the floor and the coffee table.

“We’re folding laundry though, that counts as a chore.” Bucky countered.

“And technically, I am cleaning.” You shrugged as you began to reassemble parts.

With a roll of his eyes, John shook his head and walked to the kitchen, strolling to the pantry, probably searching for a snack.

Bob continued gazing at all the weapons, stepping towards the rug with curiosity, yet with a slight concern in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I think you guys look cute doing chores together… Besides the fact that you have every weapon known to man laid out in front of the TV.” Bob gave a grin, a bit of worry laced at the edges as he gave the two of you a thumbs up.

“Thanks, Bob.” You smiled back, eyes trailing down to see Bob’s foot, adorned in a white sock and a slipper, barely touching the edge of one of your guns. “Watch your step, by the way.”

Bob quickly darted his eyes down, slightly recoiling by taking a step back.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He sauntered away, slippers shuffling across the floor as he walked to the kitchen.

As you continued your work, you couldn’t help but laugh when you heard Bob sigh with disappointment, aimed towards John, “Out of all the things we have in the kitchen, you decided to eat the thing equivalent to drywall?”

You glanced up with a smirk, already knowing John was eating his favourite protein bar, which everyone thought was the most disgusting and driest thing to exist. John shrugged as he chewed his bite.

“I’ve had these since high school. Ate these after practices and they never failed me during state championships,” A smug smile lifted on his lips, “You guys are missing out.”

Bob was right about comparing it to drywall as the bar crumbled when John took another bite, small dry chunks falling onto the kitchen island. Rolling his eyes, Bob brushed past John to open the fridge.

“Yup, we’re totally jealous of you eating cardboard.” Bob mumbled under his breath, rummaging through the food on the fridge shelves.

You lost track of time as the day progressed, but when everything was done, with clothes all folded and weapons fixed and cleaned, you and Bucky decided to take a well deserved nap.

The two of you were lying on the couch, your head resting against his chest and his arms wrapped around you as a random movie played on the TV. You were lightly sleeping, the TV droning in the background and the warmth of Bucky’s body lulling and cocooning you. But you were pulled out of your sleepy state when Bucky spoke,

“You’re the only person I want to fold laundry and fix guns with for the rest of my life with.”

Lifting your head off his chest, you looked at him with bleary eyes, “That might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, minus the guns.” You sleepily chuckled.

Bucky laughed, his hand splayed out across your lower back, feeling his warmth seep into your shirt and skin. Leaning forward, you kissed him softly, lips slotting perfectly against his as he kissed you back lovingly.

Your lips trailed to the corner of his mouth, words slightly mumbled as your lips lifted teasingly against his skin, “What about the rest of the team? I’m sure they would love to spend time with you doing chores.”

He chuckled, “The thing is, I love having my naps after. And I don’t think any of them would want to lie down on the couch with me willingly. Besides you, of course.”

“C’mon, with a simple bribe of a protein bar, I think a nap with Walker would be lovely.” You buried your head into Bucky’s chest, poorly attempting to conceal your laughter.

A deadpan look sat on his face as he playfully pinched your side, making you snicker even harder.

“It took me a while to realize it, but I’ve lived in so many places. I stayed in different apartments when I was on the run. I lived in Wakanda for a while, and there were more apartments after that too.” As your laughter died down, your eyes slowly softened at Bucky, lending all ears to him. “Now the Watchtower is another residence added to the list — the downside is that I have to share the roof with a bunch of roommates.” He rolled his eyes, making you exhale a small chuckle through your nose.

His vibranium hand slowly shifted up, gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb delicately brushed against your cheekbone with the most tender of motions as he gazed at you, soft blue eyes flickering over your features.

“I haven’t felt at home for a long time… But with you, it finally does.”

A sheepish smile made its way on your face and a gentle warmth prickled your cheeks. Leaning into his hand, you pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, feeling the smooth and sleek metal against your lips. The metal slightly cooled your heated cheek.

“It doesn’t matter if we’re on the jet checking our gear before we land, folding laundry together, cleaning our guns, or taking a nap in the living room — everything just feels right with you.”

Your heart began to flutter in your chest, rapidly thumping against your chest. You couldn’t help but surge forward, capturing his lips in a tenderhearted kiss, trying to convey how much you adored him with the delicate caresses of your lips against his.

Steadying yourself, you placed your hand on his chest, feeling Bucky’s heartbeat pulse under your palm, which was beating just as fast as yours. The hand caressing your cheek migrated down, holding the side of your neck as his thumb brushed against your jaw.

Before you got lightheaded, you pulled away, leaning your forehead against his.

“Being a part of this team means being and doing things much bigger than yourself, and I think we get too caught up in missions and our duties sometimes. But being with you reminds me that we can pull back, have a sense of normalcy among the chaos that happens on this Earth every other week.” Your fingers played with the fabric of his t-shirt, still feeling his heartbeat course under your fingertips.

“You ground me. With the little things we do, like doing household chores, even the unconventional ones, you remind me of home. You’re my home, Bucky.” You breathed.

Suddenly, your world turned upside down as Bucky flipped you over, lying you down on the couch. His arms snaked around your middle as he buried his head into the crook of your neck, placing a kiss to your pulse point. You smiled, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and behind his neck like it was second nature, pulling him closer to you as you felt Bucky brush the tip of his nose against the same spot on your neck.

“I love you.” He mumbled into your skin.

Bring your hand to his hair, you slowly began to play with some strands, brushing out the locks between your fingers.

“I love you too.”

With the roles reversed and Bucky resting his head on your chest, you couldn’t help cement the thought racing through your mind.

Bucky was it for you.

And he’s the one you want to sharpen knives with for the rest of your life.

Thanks for reading! Feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated!

#fic rec #bucky

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